Fall Out
by ray4ruffles
Summary: the next scene after Countdown  summer finale .  Peter is done "proving" what he already knows- it's time for Neal to step up.  Now updated to create a whole semi-episode.  Primarily Peter and El POV
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Obviously don't own White Collar, but after watching the summer finale, I desperately wanted to write a next scene. Probably a one-shot, since I don't have anything off the top of my head to follow this, and I'm not usually a W/C writer, but I wanted to put this out there anyways.

**A/A/N**: also, this works under the impression that when Mozzie left, he left for good (well, meant to, anyways).

* * *

><p>"<em>He took my wife."<em>

Peter's words echoed in the air long after they were spoken: after the FBI finally left for the night; past the time when Diana and Jones patted his shoulder as they made for the door, promising they would catch the dirtbag and get El back. They hung there as an absolute, an accusation pointed at the lone man still remaining in his home, the one the agent knew was the reason behind it all.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, floating around in his rational thought, Peter knew this wasn't really Neal's fault—that Keller was a psychotic bastard who would stop at nothing to get the upper hand in some twisted game he thought they were playing—and that the con man was already blaming himself for everything. His eyes were cracked in guilt: the same guilt he had when Fowler went after El, when Peter's badge was taken, and when he came to the conclusion that he was responsible for Kate's death and Mozzie's shooting.

But Peter's sense of fury-driven righteousness pushed itself into the forefront. Because Neal _was_ responsible for most of those events; his actions and lack of consideration for consequences drove them into being, and as horrible as he felt about it afterwards, it didn't change the fact that it was his fault.

_His fault._ Peter stood where he'd been for the last...he wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, staring at Neal who's ice blue eyes could barely maintain contact, barely cover the fact that he was about to fall apart.

"Don't." It was sharp, and Peter barely recognized himself speaking as he raised his hand to stop whatever crap was about to come out of Caffrey's mouth. "You did this—_you_ brought this here."

"Peter, I had no idea—" Neal looked like a beaten puppy, but Peter held fast.

"That Keller wanted the treasure? That he knew you had it? That he was willing to go to any lengths to beat you? Which part didn't you know Neal?" Peter's voice was rising in intensity as the fallout of his friend's betrayal came at him in waves. His feet began to pace the floor and he purposely looked away from the fragile expression pleading at him.

"No, " he continued. "I knew it from that day at the warehouse, and you _lied_ to me. You said you wouldn't, and I wanted to believe you, so I tried to do it right—tried to prove it. But you… you looked right at me. I should have thrown you back in prison when I first realized it."

"Peter—"

"He took Elizabeth, Neal! Doesn't that mean anything to you? She's believed in you longer than anyone- longer than_ me_! And now she's…" He stopped and braced himself against the table to keep his balance, his composure. Peter wasn't sure how he was going to survive this. El was the best thing that had ever happened to him: she was his rock, his North Star, his best friend. His entire reason for being lay wrapped up in that smart, beautiful woman, and the thought of losing her was tearing him apart.

Neal's hand grazed Peter's shoulder, and he ripped himself out of his reach. The con's—the _traitor's_—hand just froze there, both of them ignoring it as Neal's desperate blue eyes locked onto Peter's furious brown.

"_You_ did this," he repeated, gesturing to the chair opposite from him as he took as seat. "And now you're going to tell me everything. _The truth_, Neal."

Neal took a deep breath, and sat down. His eyes were trained on the table for an immeasurable minute and it took everything in Peter not to shake him hard. Every minute was wasting El's time; he needed answers and he needed them _now_. But that damn soft spot in the back of his head that had always been there for Neal Caffrey; the one that had by now managed to carve a nice niche for itself so the agent couldn't help but feel a brotherly, if not paternal bond for the other—that spot reminded him that Neal wasn't as strong as he looked, and that if Peter couldn't provide him the support for the guilt he felt, he had to at least provide him the space.

Neal finally looked up, eyes and voice clear as he began. "I wasn't lying to you when I told you I didn't take the treasure. That I honestly believed it was lost in the explosion."

"Caffrey—" Peter didn't have time for this BS, but Neal pressed on.

"But—" the word was piercing, and he faltered as Peter went silent, eyes balking under the intensity of the other man's gaze. "I did find out otherwise, later on."

"And you didn't tell anyone?" Neal didn't say anything, and Peter knew it was a stupid question. Of course Neal wouldn't have said anything—especially if someone he knew took the treasure. "Mozzie?"

"Mozzie's gone," Neal replied softly, and Peter's thoughts of Keller and his wife were momentarily suspended as his mind put together the meaning behind the younger man's words.

Mozzie had stolen the treasure. He and Neal may have been hiding it all this time, but only one of them had taken off.

_Mozzie was gone_. Suddenly the entirety of the situation flew back to him. "And the treasure?" Neal remained silent, shrugging softly, and Peter repeated more urgently. "Neal, where's the treasure?"

"It's out of my radius, but I'd guess if it's not gone, it will be soon."

Peter, forgetting his fury in the weight of the moment, reached across the table and grabbed Neal's shoulder in a familiar grip. "Neal, Keller's ransom is the treasure. We need to find it."

Peter knew it wasn't FBI policy to give in to demands. He knew that the treasure resurfacing would likely lead to Neal's express ticket to a permanent cell in a maximum security facility. And he knew that it was completely possible that Keller would still kill El even if he got every piece of treasure he could offer.

Peter knew, and he didn't care.

Neal met the eyes of his partner (though for how much longer, neither could say), likely knowing the exact same facts, and nodded grimly.

"Let's do this."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** So I decided I don't care what you guys think- I'm actually enjoying this piece. So when I thought of a continuation of the story, I decided to run with it. It's mostly Peter and Elizabeth's POV (third person), but if you wait long enough, there's a Neal in there once or twice.

**A/N:** If I owned White Collar, I would not be sitting here writing fan fic. I mean, I love you guys, but not that much.

* * *

><p>Elizabeth found herself sitting in a cold metal chair with her hands handcuffed behind her back in a well lit room with no windows and damp walls. If she was going to hazard a guess, she'd bet she was in some sort of basement. Not good.<p>

However, she wasn't dead, and she was no longer being held at gunpoint, so she decided to call this a high point in the dangerous game she found herself in.

"Hey!" She shouted as she realized her kidnapper was leaving the room. "Hey! What's going on?"

"Don't bother—they're just minions," a soft voice whispered behind her, and out of her peripheral vision, El saw a mess of matted dirty blonde hair and green eyes glancing at her. She took another moment and realized the girl's clothes were torn and bloodied, and she looked pale from stress.

"God—" the brunette began, but the younger girl interrupted again.

"Shh," she hissed, and El could hear the echo of footfalls from the hallway outside. "There's not a lot of time. I can help you, but you've got to talk fast. Who are you, and how are you connected to Keller?"

"Matthew Keller?" Elizabeth asked incredulously. How many times was that man going to be responsible for trying to destroy her life?

"Yes, Matthew Keller," the blonde replied impatiently. "Psychotic bad guy with a cockney accent. Come on—name and connection. _Hurry_."

"My name is Elizabeth Burke, and my husband works for the FBI—he's arrested Keller for murder before, and was kidnapped by him just a few months ago, but he escaped."

"Elizabeth Burke with the FBI?" the other repeated, processing the information. "I can work with that." Just then, the lock began turning. "Don't say a word."

El turned to watch the same brute that had manhandled her into an SUV earlier that night entering the room, carrying a camera and newspaper in his hand.

"Hey Tyrell—no Buckingham today?" the girl's voice spoke up hoarsely.

"I'd be careful, Worm," the man said gruffly. "You keep saying that, your father may get less back than he thinks."

"And if that was your call, I might be more concerned," she scoffed, and Elizabeth flinched as she heard the hard smack of a hand connecting with a cheek.

"Don't push your luck," he growled. "Keller never said you had to be conscious for any of this." He roughly shoved the newspaper against her chest. "Smile."

El heard a camera click, and watched as he batted the dirtied paper onto the floor and walked out the door, footfalls echoing down the hall.

The other girl took a deep breath. "Okay," she said, taking a moment to spit blood toward the wall. "I can maybe buy you a syllable in what's coming, so make it a good one."

"What? I don't—" none of this made any sense to El.

"I've got a plan," the blonde interrupted. "You need to stay quiet, but on my signal you get one sound, okay?" Suddenly the lock quietly clicked open. "Just wait for it."

El was confused, but she had spent enough time with Peter and Neal to recognize the whirring cogs of an unspoken plan, so she thought quickly.

"Hey Buckingham," the girl smiled.

"Hey Booker," a different man, bearded and stocky, replied as he slid the door closed. "Same deal?"

"This time I want assurances," she told him. "I want proof he gets the message."

"What, you want me to hand it to him? No way."

"How am I supposed to know you're not just taking my five grand and tossing the tape? No way, I want _something_."

"We all want something. I could just walk away and Daddy gets nothing but the mug shot."

A long pause, followed by the blonde sighing. "Fine. Five grand now—"

"From a different account. I want to make sure I can't be traced."

"Five grand now; five more after I get proof of the transfer."

The man nodded, pulling out a small tape recorder. El listened as a small beep sounded, and he barked, "Talk."

* * *

><p>The night felt eternal for all of them. Peter and Neal had remained at home, trying to figure their way around discussing the treasure at the Bureau as much as possible. Peter wasn't sure that he wouldn't throw Neal back in prison, but he knew he needed him for this last case at least.<p>

Neal had spent most of the night making calls—anyone that he could contact to find Mozzie, Keller, or El. And the only thing he knew by the first rays of light was that Mozzie hadn't been heard from for the last eight hours (more than enough time to disappear if the score was already packed).

As for Peter, he scoured his computer for every file, every contact, the Bureau had on Keller: anything that he could potentially trace to a lead on El. He originally sent Jones and Diana to the unit address Neal had given them with no luck, and when Neal had informed him that Mozzie (and subsequently the treasure) were off the grid, the conversation between the two was reduced to clipped statements.

When they walked into the office, the undercurrent was even more tense. Officially Peter wasn't part of the investigation, since that was against policy, but neither Rice (who was taking charge of the investigation) or even Hughes had the heart to tell him to go home, and so he and the conman situated themselves to his office.

Peter purposely avoided Neal's flitting glances toward him in between staring at his file. He wasn't ready to talk about anything but ways to get his wife back, and he still couldn't hold eye contact without seeing red. So he took to staring at his computer screen, using momentary breaks to pace to the door and glance out into the bullpen.

Both men looked up as they heard footsteps approaching, and watched hopefully as Diana pushed through the door.

"Boss, got a phone call," she told him.

"El?" he asked.

She shook her head. "But we think it might be a lead."


	3. Chapter 3

Peter made his way to a 24-hour diner on the Upper East Side. He glanced both ways before walking in, quickly finding Jones and Diana in position for back up. A part of him wished Neal was here, the way he would usually be; but their relationship was in shambles, and he couldn't afford to have any show of dissonance in his team, so the con remained in the van while the special agent walked into the known business place of the Russian mob.

He quickly located Stefan Gavrikov, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair seated alone in a corner booth, staring at his vodka. He was rumored as a higher up in the organization; a lieutenant and courier that the Bureau could never seem to hold onto. Peter slid in and looked at the other man expectantly.

"Mr. Gavrikov, I'm Special Agent Peter Burke. You asked for me?"

The man looked up, glancing around before asking, "And your agents?"

"Special Agent Jones and Barrigan. They're part of my team." Peter paused, trying to be patient, but he was never good with mob guys, and this was not going to be the morning that changed. "You said you had information in regards to a sensitive case."

The man met Peter's gaze and the FBI agent was surprised to recognize the expression they held: desperation, fear; all of the things he was attempting to suppress in his own as he thought about his wife.

"Before I speak to you, Agent Burke, I must ask two important questions," he continued, lowering his voice. "Do you have a wife named Elizabeth, and do you know a man named Matthew Keller?"

Peter's eyes flashed in response, and the older man continued. "Six months ago, my daughter contacted me for the first time." He pulled out a wallet-sized picture of a blonde girl with bright green eyes in her mid-twenties, holding a diploma and smiling next to an older woman. "Her mother had died recently, and she wished to meet, get to know each other."

Gavrikov sighed and pulled out a folder. "Last week she disappeared, and I found this in my mailbox." He opened it to a photograph of the blonde, now bruised and bloody, tied to a chair with a copy of a newspaper propped onto her lap. "I received a call from Mr. Keller, instructing me to follow his instructions precisely if I wished to see my daughter again."

"And what were his instructions?" Peter asked, leaning forward.

"Firstly, that I not go looking for him or my daughter. He insisted if he sees any of my associates or myself, he will kill her." The criminal pushed the file across the table to the agent, looking at him meaningfully. "I will not put her safety at risk."

Peter took the folder, nodding in understanding. As he moved to stand, he turned back. "How did you know about my wife?"

"My daughter is quite clever," Gavrikov's mouth twitched in pride at the statement. "She managed to convey her desire that I find you personally."

* * *

><p>Back in the conference room, the team poured over the new file in front of them.<p>

"Brooke Werner, aka Bookworm; PhD in English Literature and daughter of Russian mobster Stefan Gavrikov," Peter stated, looking at the screen image of the recently kidnapped girl. "Mother moved out west when she became pregnant, recently died of breast cancer. Brooke decided to catch up with Daddy, moved to New York, and was kidnapped by Keller last week."

"Mob ties besides the father?" Diana asked.

"According to our sources, she hasn't been connected in any business, although she's reputed as a respectable fence herself," Rice answered, surveying a file provided by the California branch.

"So she's just leverage to keep the Russians from closing in?" Jones asked.

"Gavrikov recorded all of the calls after the first," Peter replied, clicking on a recording.

Keller's voice carried through the speakers, _"First, you're going to get your people off my backs. This works out, I'll have more than enough to make good on my debts and hand back your precious girl."_

_"Fine,"_ Gavrikov's voice replied gruffly.

_"And second, I'm gonna need some moving arrangements."_

Peter clicked off the recording. "Keller asks for trucks, freight trains, and cargo ships to be ready every day at random locations for the next two weeks."

"He wants multiple options to cover his tracks," Rice deduced.

"Yeah, but it's likely he's using them all as decoys," the room went quiet as Neal finally voiced an opinion. The conman flinched at the cold response, but continued anyways. "He's not going to risk having the Russians be able to find him with everything."

The room paused for a moment, before Diana spoke up. "So what does this have to do with Elizabeth? How did Gavrikov know about her?"

"The day after the phone call, he received a tape recording," Peter replied. "It was mostly gibberish, but I still don't think Keller would have cleared it."

"She's bribing one of Keller's guys? She must be good," Neal said in admiration, and Peter found himself smirking.

"And yesterday, this arrived in his mailbox." Peter clicked another button, and an unfamiliar voice spoke.

_"This is a call for Henry Long. Though scared and lost like Edward's Queen as I await Gloucester's words, I will take comfort in constructing acts prior of pent. Please come—"_

And then a shuffle and furniture falling and another woman's voice, "_Hun!_" yelping in the background, just before a man's voice cursed and the recording went dead.

The entire room stared at the computer. "Was that-?" Jones asked.

"It was El," Peter confirmed. "She's alive, and she's with Brooke, wherever that is."

"But how did Gavrikov—"

Peter pulled up a paper on the screen. It was a scanned transcript of the recording in the mobster's notes, with underlines under "_Henry Long", "Queen", and "Gloucester_".

Neal tilted his head. "You said her expertise was English Lit?"

Rice nodded. "Mostly Shakespeare."

The con man rose from his chair, pondering over the words. "One of Shakespeare's most popular plays was _Richard III_ in which the main character, Richard, was also known as the Duke of Gloucester before becoming king. Henry Long was a sheriff, and King Edward IV's wife's name was—"

"Elizabeth," Peter finished, staring at the scribbles on the plasma.

"What about the rest of the recording?" Jones asked. "Taking comfort in constructing acts prior of pent? Is that just more gibberish?"

Neal shook his head. "I'm not sure." He glanced back at Peter. "Maybe if we—" he faltered on the word, correcting himself, "—_you_ checked out her place…"

Peter took a deep breath, and Rice stepped up. "Diana, Jones: we're going to take the team and look up the addresses for any place Brooke might be connected to." The fed watched as his team shuffled out the door, then turned to the con shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

Rice was the last to leave, and pulled Peter aside. "Technically you're not even supposed to be on this case, but it's your call what you want to do with him." He nodded, and she left with the others.

Peter waited for the door to close, then approached Neal. "You and me, we've got a major problem," he told his partner. "But whether I like it or not, I need your help to get El back. So I'm willing to put your part in this whole mess aside until after this is over—deal?"

Neal looked at the Fed hopefully. "Peter, I just want you to know—"

"Neal, this is all I can give right now, so just…let's just do this, okay?"

The con sighed and nodded resignedly, and the two left to follow the others.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So yeah, I'm a Shakespeare geek, and now so is our guest star :) In case you missed it, Buckingham and Tyrell are minions for Richard in the play, so I figured if she didn't know their real names, she'd probably give them fake ones.

And how about it for the return of Rice? She's not my favorite guest character (as you'll be able to tell from the dialogue), but she seemed so obvious a choice for this situation, and with their parting words in "Front Man", I can't help but think she should be here.


	4. Chapter 4

In the dimly lit room El sat in silence, listening to the pained breathing of the unconscious girl tied to the chair next to her. After knocking over both of their chairs during the recording, the stocky man she called Buckingham had righted them, but the blonde had apparently all but passed out from the effort and pain. The burly guard had left them, and Elizabeth found herself listening to the labored breathing of the sleeping girl and the constant dripping on the floor as she tried to plan her next move.

When she heard the scuffling of hands against metal and the rapid breathing of the other, she reached out to take her bound hand in her own. "Shh, it's okay; it's okay."

A pause, followed by "Elizabeth?"

El tried to smile comfortingly. "Right."

The blonde sighed. "Right." She took a few steadying breaths. "Sorry about before—I needed to stir up some chaos."

"Don't worry about it," the brunette assured her. "You know, I never did get your name."

"Brooke. Werner; most people call me 'Bookworm' though, hence the varying names floating around."

"Nice to meet you Brooke, though I wish it were under better circumstances…" Both women chuckled. "I've been trying to think of our next move: what do you know about this place?"

"I know I've been here a week now," Brooke told her, blinking hard as she tried to focus. "The two guys that you've met are the only ones that come into this room, but there's one more that monitors the exits via security cams. If you listen, you can hear what I think is a subway passing through, but not as often as the ones in Midtown, so maybe on the outskirts?"

"The subway?" El wondered out loud. "Do you think anybody could hear us?"

"Not before the goon patrol would, and Tyrell's quick with violence," Brooke told her. "Anyways, this is New York: you could be bleeding and broken on a sidewalk in Times Square and people would just step around the mess."

"Right," El was getting worried. "You've been here a week? Why?"

Brooke looked at her, then nodded in concession. "You were honest with me; I guess our best shot is if I do the same. I grew up in San Diego with my mom. When she died six months ago, I came out here looking for my dad—who, it turns out, is Stefan Gavrikov." When El's expression didn't change, she elaborated, "He's an alleged higher-up for the Russian Mob."

The FBI agent Peter Burke's wife's eyes went wide. "Yeah," Brooke continued. "I'll admit, not what I was expecting, but I guess we don't pick our parents right? We started having lunch a couple times a week, reconnecting. Then last week, a crazy guy with a black van decided I should come here instead."

"So Keller wants something from the Russian Mob?"

"When I first met him, he was looking for papers to get out of town, but considering my new living conditions I'm guessing he's using me to buy time—he scammed the Russians out of a bucket load of cash twice now, and they're not feeling very forgiving. Unfortunately, I think kidnapping you means that _our_ time's all but up." The two sets of eyes met. "You don't kidnap government-connected persons unless you're working a truncated time table—I'm guessing we've got less than twelve hours left."

Footsteps thudded to the door, and moments later Buckingham came in with two waters and a folding table.

"Hey Book," he said, placing the table and bottles in front of her. "You okay?"

"My head's splitting and my ankle's on fire, Buckie. So about the same I guess."

"Be grateful I got you both one of these then," he smiled, and El jerked as he began dragging her chair to sit next to Brooke instead of back-to-back. He unscrewed the lids and then pulled a photo out of his pocket, throwing it next to the bottles.

"You are a good man Buckingham," Brooke smiled, looking at the creased picture of a salt-and-pepper haired man picking up a folder from a street vendor.

"Yeah, well I don't work for free," he replied. "I delivered that on good faith after you blacked out, so I'm upping my fee to fifteen."

"No way—I've already proven I was good for the money, and I wouldn't have blacked out if these chairs weren't rusted and cheap."

"You wouldn't have blacked out if you hadn't pissed off Ram—_Tyrell_ to begin with," the stocky man countered, and El followed his gesture down Brooke's legs to where one of her ankles was splayed at an angle and obviously broken. The brunette quickly looked away to control the wave of nausea that overtook her.

"Fine: twelve then." The man nodded, and Elizabeth watched as she smoothly rattled off a list of numbers that the guard stored into his Blackberry.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Book," he told her, slipping his phone back into his coat pocket. He gave her a look that was almost sympathetic as he turned to the door. "Enjoy that water."

Elizabeth listened to the door shut behind her, then watched as Brooke mouthed the bottle, tipping it upwards and chugging the contents. The brunette did her best to emulate, but dropped the bottle half-full onto the ground.

"Just water," Brooke murmured. "Does not bode well."

"Were you expecting wine and cheese?" El asked sarcastically.

"I've been here a week—they usually bring a sandwich or something. It's not much, but it keeps from starving," the other girl replied. "Nothing to eat implies they aren't worried about us going hungry."

The two looked at each other, and El realized that Peter may not have enough time to save her. "We need a plan," Elizabeth told her. "Fast."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I hope I did El justice. I always saw her as the nurturing type, but also damn smart on her own. I plan on making better use of her smarts later, so just give it time.


	5. Chapter 5

It was nine when Peter and Neal entered a small bookstore in SoHo. It was listed under Brooke's name, and under normal circumstances Neal would have taken time to appreciate the shop: the room was softly lit, adding a sort of glow to the books that were a mix of collectibles and limited editions; the room had a rich, aged smell, and the décor was authentic in its tribute to the Renaissance, with various pieces displayed around the room, including a real Romano.

"Look for anything that might give us a lead," Peter told him, and Neal started making his way through the shelves, searching through the covers of Poe, Thomas, and Nabokov as the FBI agent made his way behind the front desk, flitting through the register and payment books.

Their search came up empty, and Neal met up with Peter by the counter.

"Anything?"

Neal shook his head, running his hand through his hair as he thought. "Did you see an office? It seems odd if she was a fence that she wouldn't keep a place separate from the normal day-to-day." He began wandering among the shelves behind the counter.

"Maybe she has another place—" Peter started to say, only to stop as he saw the con staring intently at a book cover. "What is it?"

Neal pointed. "Dante's_ The Divine Comedy_." He peered closer at the weather worn book.

"That's not English Literature."

Neal sniffed the spine from its position. "It's not authentic either." He looked up and smiled at the lawman. "It's been purposely misshelved."

Peter returned the expression. "How careless," and watched as Neal tipped the book backward, causing the bookshelf to jump out of place an inch.

The two grinned and pushed the door all the way open, leading to a small office stacked with what Neal could easily identify as priceless first editions and Peter noticed were various copies of forged traveling documents.

"Busy girl," the Fed observed, thumbing through the pieces. He stopped when he saw a familiar face. "Very busy."

Neal looked up to see a passport photo of none other than Keller in Peter's hands and his eyes went wide. "That explains how he found her."

"Keller went to the daughter of a Russian mob leuitenant for travel papers."

"He had to have known; Keller doesn't do anything half-cocked." He took a closer look at the papers, his blue eyes flitting from those on the desk to the ones in Peter's hand in comparison. "There's some major discrepancies here—obvious flags at certain security stations that's not on the samples."

"You think she knew who he was?"

Neal went back to the bookshelves, tapping his fingers along the spines. "I think she might have," he replied, pulling out a copy of _Richard III_. "A new hardcover in a pile of first editions," he murmured, opening the book and smiling.

Peter looked up to see Neal holding a flash drive and papers taken from the hollowed-out book. "A paranoid thief—at least something's working in our favor. I'm really starting to like this girl." He slid the drive into the nearby computer and clicked the link.

"This is the day she was taken," Peter murmured, checking the label on the soundless video.

"And that's Keller," Neal pointed at a man following behind Brooke into the secret office on the footage. He winced as he watched the bastard shove her toward the desk, where she quickly handed him the papers they'd just found. The two men watched as the two on tape began yelling. Suddenly Keller pulled out a gun and fired a shot that blast the vase behind her apart. He shouted again, throwing the papers onto the desk and walking out the door, and a few minutes later the men watched Brooke slide a chair just underneath the camera and turn off the recording.

Peter ran to the place the chair still remained. He reached around the top shelf and pulled out a small camera, along with another flash drive, then climbed down and turned for the door. "We need to get this back to the team—"

At that moment, a phone rang: the burn phone Keller had slipped into Peter's car just last night. Peter and Neal locked eyes for a moment before the agent put the cell on speaker.

"Keller."

"Agent Burke," came the smug reply. "I heard your lovely wife has gone missing. That's got to be difficult—how are you holding up guy?"

"You bastard," Peter was burning up, he wanted to destroy the man attached to the voice so badly. "You touch one hair on her head and I will hunt you down and tear you apart, you son of a—"

"No violence necessary, Agent Burke," the voice calmly replied. "You know what I want. Just hand over the treasure, and Elizabeth comes back to you no worse for wear."

"I want to speak to her," he growled. "I want proof she's okay."

"Well, jeez, Peter, you just missed her," Keller told him. "Check your messages over at the Bureau. She's fine for now, but in five hours? Who can say? And all you need to do to get that is have a little heart-to-heart with your criminal consultant, assuming he's still in your custody and not back in prison. Or the morgue, considering your heightened emotional state." The agent could almost hear the psychotic's delight over the idea.

"I'm here Keller," Neal spoke up, ice blue eyes matching Peter's brown ones in intensity.

"Neal," the con's rival responded in surprise. "Glad to know you're still among the free-range population. For now at least. After all, if it weren't for you, the lovely wife of a federal agent wouldn't be missing right now." He paused to let that statement simmer. "So, just as soon as you'd like Elizabeth to join you, I suggest you scrounge up the loot. You two take care now; I'll be in touch."

The phone disconnected, the two men standing in silence staring down at it. And for the first time, Peter didn't flinch away when Neal placed his hand on his shoulder and told him, "We'll get her back Peter. I promise."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I know; Keller waited a _long_ time to contact Peter again, and he didn't even put in a meet. It's a bit of a stretch (and trust me, it becomes more so later), but I wanted to establish some other things first, so stretchy my story becomes.

**A/A/N:** Extra points for those who caught that Giulio Romano is the only artist referred to in Shakespeare's work (although he is misrepresented as a sculptor in _A Winter's Tale_)


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** So this chapter goes a little _DaVinci Code_, but I did throw in a cheat sheet, and with Peter, Neal, and Diana steering the boat, I figured they could totally break down messages like these.

* * *

><p>They'd barely made it to the street when the agent's phone began to ring.<p>

"Burke," came Rice's urgent voice. "We need you back here—now."

Neither man needed to ask what they'd found, but upon entering the building Peter still found himself exhaling in relief that the stressed look of agents searching was still on everyone's face; not the desolate expression of what the option he couldn't even bring himself to imagine…

Up in the conference room, Rice headed the table. "Some kid said a guy _not_ matching Keller's description paid him fifty bucks to deliver this to the Bureau," she held up a flash drive.

"The kid?" Peter asked.

"We've got him sitting with a sketch artist," Jones told him.

Peter nodded, trying to ignore the fact everyone was watching him, and not because he was in charge. Rice finally nodded, saying, "Okay, then," before inserting the drive into the computer and clicking it open. Everyone sat in silence as El's voice came through the speakers.

"_Peter, Neal...I'm okay_," she said, breathing heavily. "_Keller wants…_" a distinct shove, and the sound of metal scraping across the ground. "_Keller wants the treasure and he knows Neal has it…He wants to meet Neal at 2 pm…where this whole thing started…without the anklet…._" Another shove, and El's voice yelped just a little, in fear or surprise, Peter couldn't tell. "_If Keller sees any Feds, he'll kill me…I love you hun, please hurry—_"

The tape cut out, with Peter still staring at the back of the computer. He took a deep breath, then looked up at Rice. "Play it again."

As the recording played a second time, Peter actually found himself smiling. Of course Diana was next to pick up on it.

"In the background—is that a train?"

"A train or maybe the subway—El's stalling to give us time to listen. Jones—pull out the speech audio, see if you can isolate the background noise."

Jones input the new feedback, and there was no doubt about it: a distinct _whoosh_, followed by a squeal of brakes seconds later.

"So they're near tracks," Rice said. "That still could put them anywhere."

"Not if we put it next to what Brooke's sent us," Neal spoke up, pulling out the hollowed out book. Along with surveillance tapes were several slips of paper.

"_Trifecta: three point or rooftop? Ophelia's clowns: graveyard?_," Rice read, staring at the con incredulously. "Do we have any idea what any of this means?"

"It's a breakdown of the code she's been sending in the recording," he explained, rounding the table to where Jones sat in front of the computer. "This probably isn't the first time she's been in trouble."

"You think we can use this to break down her gibberish in the two messages?" Diana guessed.

"And use it to pin down where she and El are," Peter finished. "Jones, play back the first message."

"_In what you will, oh Malvolio, your treatment lies. I miss Illyria, though the synthetics comfort me, as well as the men against the steward. Plus egg salad sucks._"

Jones quickly posted the transcribed words onto the screen, followed by the copy of the second message they'd already seen.

"Okay, 'What You Will' is the subtitle for _Twelfth Night_—that's got to be the play she's referring to," Neal began, pacing beside the table.

"So what was Malvolio's treatment?" Rice asked.

"Olivia thought he was insane because of a trick—" the con began.

"Here—_Malvolio's treatment: basement, underground_," Diana supplied, looking up from the papers in front of her.

Peter came up behind her and pointed, "Illyria is water—so a fake could mean a modern water source?"

Rice picked up the pictures from Gavrikov's folder. "Or she knows that waters dripping from above. There are water spots on the newspaper and her clothes. Implies the place is poorly constructed."

"Construction…" Peter stared at the picture, then back to the papers. "_Constructing acts prior of pent_—pent is five, so constructing before act V. Act V in Richard III was—"

"The battle," Diana supplied. "She's in a building with pre-war construction."

"What about the men against the steward?" Jones asked.

Peter looked through the papers. "Here—_grouped characters imply numbers_. How many men were acting against Molvolio in Twelfth Night?"

"Three," Neal supplied, tapping the screen. "She knows there are three guards, and since the guy who gave the kid Elizabeth's recording _wasn't_ Keller, I'll bet he's not hanging out there."

"What about the egg salad comment?" Rice spoke up again. "I mean, that's not exactly Shakespearean."

"No," Peter pondered, staring at the sentence. "It's just a random opinion in an encoded message."

"Not random, Boss," Diana replied, pointing to a small piece of paper, tattered and creased. "Check this out: _My Bookworm; for the long haul, never forget that the way to you is through your stomach. Mom_"

"More riddles?" Rice said.

"_The way to you is through your stomach_," Peter murmured, looking from the page to the screen. Suddenly his eyes lit up. "She's been there a week, I'll bet they're feeding her. Wherever they have her they're getting egg salad."

"They serve those at thousands of vendors," Rice reminded him.

"But combine it with a pre-war building with a basement near a subway station and a water structure and the list gets shorter really fast," Diana said, standing.

"Add in that Keller will want to make a quick getaway, and we can take out all of the heavy traffic areas," Neal added, the two smiling like old times as they followed each other's train of thought.

"Good," Rice stated, taking back the meeting. "Barrigan, you follow up on whatever you can find about location. Jones, see if you can't break down any more of those recordings. Peter, you're with me."

"What about me?" Neal asked, looking to the agent as his partner walked out of the office.

Rice met his gaze. "Agents are going to escort you home."

Neal's jaw dropped. "What? But the meeting—"

"We're not sending you into the lion's den again Caffrey. Especially when there _is_ no treasure to deliver. We'll figure out our own move, catch Keller when he doesn't expect it."

"Keller will be _expecting_—"

"Keller will be expecting you to pull a stupid move like meeting somewhere alone so he can have you and the treasure without the Russians or the Bureau to catch him. Unless you somehow actually _have_ the treasure Caffrey," she eyed him, and Neal's eyes shifted away. Peter had decided for now to stand next to the story that the treasure was destroyed, and Keller was just a rival of Neal's with an axe to grind. "We're not going to let that happen, so just help us out by staying away from this." She gave him a hard look. "Just go, Neal."

And just like that, Neal realized the familiar feeling of teamwork and camaraderie had been an illusion, because all of the sudden he was flanked by two random agents and escorted to the door without a second look by the others.

He was going to lose everything, and so was Peter, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

With the spiral he was on, the last thing he expected was Sara waiting for him at the front door of the Bureau.


	7. Chapter 7

El was staring at the wall, trying to remember everything she'd seen when the thug Brooke had deemed "Tyrell" had temporarily left the door open while he set up the recorder and script for her ransom note: cold gray walls, a glow from what could be a television or computer screen, and shadows all implying that the only way to go was right. Unfortunately, she was also starting to panic, because she knew they were running out of time, especially since when the brute had lost his temper with the blonde's snark and hit her hard enough that she'd practically fallen into El's lap and the brunette had realized that the girl was running a fever.

"Nice touch with the breathing," Brooke panted. "Do you think your husband will figure out where we are?"

"We may not have codes, but no one knows me like Peter," El replied, smiling in spite of everything. "He'll figure it out."

Neither of them voiced the obvious question of _whether it would be in time_.

"It's probably good you don't have codes," the blonde told her, trying to fill the space. "It implies you don't have this issue to worry about often."

El nodded sympathetically. "I guess it'd be hard being allegedly connected to the mob." She was actually amazed the girl and her father could think of a system that fast.

Brooke chuckled. "Actually, it was my mom. She was a good fence, but more than a little reckless. And she was always paranoid that one of her deals might go wrong and they'd realize I was a way to gain the upper hand. So she got me really into books, and we'd talk about how characters related to real life people. She used them to make all sorts of codes, like a game."

Brooke smiled, then continued. "The first time I was kidnapped, I was twelve."

Elizabeth's eyes widened in surprise. "What happened?"

Brooke shrugged. "I panicked, forgot everything. Mom ended up losing a lot of money on the deal to get me back, and we never did business in Vegas again.

"I didn't speak to her for a week, but eventually I accepted the reality of it, and I knew when the next time came, I'd be ready." She scoffed. "Even if she wasn't around to break it down and save me."

El leaned over and pressed her shoulder to the other's for comfort. "Your clues reached Peter. He and Neal will figure it out. We just need to buy them time. So let's figure out how to get out of this."

Brooke sighed. "The hall is long and narrow, and there are only two doors between here and the doofus watching the cameras, both of which are utility closets. You may be able to sneak past him if you crouch low, but the exit has an alarm, and it only leads out into another hallway that's empty except for a couple minutes after the evening rush—I think it's under construction, so maybe maintenance guys?"

The brunette looked at the girl in surprise. "How did you find that out?"

"First twenty-four hours are the most critical for escaping," Brooke answered. "Unfortunately, Tyrell's a lot faster than he looks, and he's not forgiving or gentle." She gestured back to her unnaturally-angled limb. "If the guys out there heard me, they weren't asking any questions."

"How'd you get out the door?" El asked.

"Picked the cuffs and the door," Brooke replied. "Cuffs are easy, plus you know: hair pins. Door's a basic tumbler."

"You can get out of the cuffs?"

In response, Brooke held up her hand, which El realized was missing the metal bracelet still attached to the other.

"If you can do that, then we could sneak out of here," she said excitedly.

Brooke shook her head. "I'm lucky the bone didn't break through the skin—I can barely walk, much less run." She tilted her head in thought. "But maybe if I caused enough of a distraction, _you_ could get out—"

"No," El argued vehemently. "I'm not leaving without you." Not to mention if she left the blonde behind, they would almost certainly kill her.

"Then neither of us are leaving," Brooke told her flatly. "Because I can guarantee you, I'm not winning any races on this."

"How much time do you think we have left?" El asked, racking her brains for an idea.

Brooke shrugged, using her free hand to wipe the sweat off her forehead. "Maybe another couple hours—maybe."

"Then maybe we can get another message out instead."

* * *

><p>Peter was hard at work, but something felt off. Rice had been questioning him about everything from the case. He'd repeated everything from every phone call between himself and Keller. He'd gone over all of the details about the dock and the treasure over and over. He'd put himself through all of the motions of checking up on everyone on his team: Jones had calculated the time the subway had passed the area, and Diana was matching it up against terminals with restricted access located away from heavy foot traffic; Rice was with Hughes, breaking down the FBI setup at the docks, and Neal—<p>

"Where's Neal?" Peter asked, practically smacking himself in the head for only now realizing that his con/ sort-of-partner was apparently nowhere in sight.

"I sent him home with agents sitting on him," Rice replied, steering the agent into Hughes' office. "He's not going anywhere today."

"What do you mean? We need him to make contact with Keller," Peter argued. He looked to Hughes for support. "Neal knows Keller better than anyone, and we need him for this."

Hughes shook his head. "Neal's too close to this Peter; he's not thinking straight, and with the treasure destroyed, he doesn't have anything to bargain with this time." He placed his hand in a comforting gesture on the other man's shoulder. "Don't worry; we have a plan—"

"A plan that Keller's going to see coming from a mile away!" Burke interjected. "We need Neal to buy us some time; FBI agents are just going to get Elizabeth killed—"

"Caffrey's emotions are compromising this case, Agent Burke," Rice spoke up. "And honestly, so are yours. I don't know about you, but last time I let Caffrey off of his anklet to meet up with an ex-partner, I almost ended up losing him _and_ my hostage. This game's too dangerous to make such a risky play—we're going to do it by protocol."

"Keller doesn't play by protocol," Peter told them heatedly. He looked incredulously at his boss and the agent in charge. "All you are going to accomplish by keeping me and Neal out is letting Keller escape again and killing my wife and Brooke Werner in the process." Peter gave them an accusing stare as he picked up his coat and left the building, ignoring the agents that shadowed him with a gesture from Rice.

* * *

><p>AN: So, especially after this chapter, I'm starting to think Brooke is sounding a little schizo- I mean, does she want to escape or just wait for someone to rescue her? And my only answer is that she's hurt, she's sick, and she's been there a week, so give her (and me) a break and allow that she's doing the best she can; and since El's never been in this situation, she's a little indecisive about what to do herself. There :)

A/A/N: In case I lost any of you- the Feds are playing the setup as the docks where the U-boat was stored as where this all started. Neal, on the other hand, may have a different location in mind (as we'll see)...


	8. Chapter 8

If there was anything in this world Neal Caffrey hated, it was pity. It was something he'd grown up with, with his father dying before he could remember and his mother unable to break her bad-boy habits. Maybe that's how he'd developed his million-dollar smile: because really, who could pity a bright-eyed kid with a positive attitude and an irresistible grin? When he'd hit ten, he'd learned to combine his natural charm and his mother's boyfriends' varying levels of knowledge in misdemeanor behaviors to put together a better life for himself, outside of what people saw when they looked at his family. He managed to manipulate and lift the right clothes, the right stuff- everything he needed to keep people from thinking he lacked for anything. His charisma kept people wanting to be around him and admiring him. And when he was sixteen and his then-girlfriend convinced him the life they wanted couldn't wait any longer, they made their way toward bigger and better things: Houston and New Orleans together, and eventually New York City on his own.

That was one of the upsides of being a white-collar criminal: when he was on top people envied him; and when he'd gotten caught, people judged and hated him (except Peter, who somehow grew to respect him, even care about him). But no one pitied him at any point.

So when things started to fall apart in Neal's world—when Kate disappeared (both times), when she died, when Mozzie was shot or Peter was kidnapped or Sara left—Neal didn't let people see enough of him to pity. Misdirection had become second nature. He just started planning until the problem was fixed or people didn't think about it anymore.

Which was why, when Sara established she was here because she'd heard about Elizabeth, and managed to keep the feds sitting in their car so she and Neal could be alone, Neal ignored every urge except the one to put on his game face developed by years of training.

He walked over to the table and grabbed a pad of paper, writing down key notes from the meeting and babbling ideas in order to keep Sara from talking.

"_Where it all started_—the anklet really is the first thing…although he's going to expect something at the meet, I wonder if I could put together something believable…of course if we had the crates this would be so much easier…maybe if I could bargain out a proof of life…but Keller doesn't know we know about Brooke…"

He'd gotten up and begun scurrying around the room haphazardly. Usually, he had Mozzie or Alex or Peter to lean back on, but his subconscious was pressing down hard on him the complete seclusion of his state, and it was causing him to lose his usual Caffrey-cool exterior.

His ice-blue eyes glanced up at Sara. She hadn't moved, hadn't even opened her mouth; she just was looking at him, eyes reflecting his own feeling of loss in the situation.

"I can fix this," he told her, trying to will her to believe in him the way a good con should. He didn't want her soft eyes, so full of concern, to transfer over to that emotion that he couldn't stand to think of.

"Neal—" she began, reaching out her hand toward him, but he turned away, back toward the balcony, working to center himself and glue back together the pieces of his flawless character. He focused on the feeling of the sun dancing around the room and on his skin. It felt wrong, strangely; like it should be dark and rainy for times like this.

"I'm going to fix this Sara," he told her stubbornly, though he didn't pull away when she took his hand.

"Okay," Sara told him. "Where do we start?"

Neal looked back at her, surprised. She should hate him, should be on the other side telling him how stupid he was and reckless and thoughtless of the consequences-if she was going to talk to him at all. Yet instead here she was, standing next to him, backing his move.

He shook himself out of his thoughts. He didn't have time to hope for anything, he had to problem-solve. That had to be why Sara was here—because she cared about Peter, and Elizabeth, and knew Neal would get the job done.

"Keller wants to meet me, alone, in a lot near The New Museum on Bowery," Neal told her. "I can't have Peter or my anklet when I go, or he'll kill Elizabeth."

"And you think he'll want a piece of the treasure up front as a show of good faith?" she asked. He nodded. "Neal, you have to give it to him."

Neal's heart broke—again. "I can't," he told her in a small voice.

"Neal, if this can save Elizabeth—"

"I can't," he said again, dragging his hand over his face and hating himself that his voice was cracking, defeated. "Because the treasure's gone, Sara."

He couldn't look at her, couldn't look at anything. He just felt her drop his hand and the intensity of her stare. And he found himself wishing, not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours that he'd just followed Mozzie—that he hadn't been here for any of this.

"I ruined everything, and for the first time in my life I can't think of any way to make it _right_. Moz is gone; Peter hates me; I've got nothing to offer Keller, and if I run, I'm killing Elizabeth." Neal slid to the ground as the weight of everything he'd been holding in came tumbling out of him. In the back of his mind he knew he had no right to bring Sara into this, to dump his burden on her. They weren't even together anymore—he'd burned that bridge too. But he was so tired, and so alone…

He felt the soft brush of auburn hair across his neck, and couldn't help but lean in as Sara pulled him toward her.

"Neal, you'll get through this," she told him, bringing his face up so his ice-blues could meet her green. He loved being close enough to watch the tiny hazel flecks dance while she talked. "Yes, things are messed up, and it'll take time to get there, but things will get better. But not if you don't pull yourself together right now and get Elizabeth out of there." She took his arms and brought them both to their feet. "So—what do we do?"

Neal took a deep breath, walking back to the table with Sara's hand still firmly clasped in his. "We need a piece of the treasure, and I need to get this damn anklet off," he murmured.

"How are you going to forge a piece of the treasure in an hour?" Sara asked.

"I have no idea," Neal replied, rummaging through his supply drawers. "It's not enough time for a decent piece—" he froze in front of the open hidden drawer, then looked back to Sara. "The Degas," he said, grinning wide as he pulled out the piece Mozzie had apparently left behind. Neal's eyes lit up in excitement. "We had to steal it back after Moz sold it a couple days ago- he must've decided it was too hot to travel with…"

Sara moved next to him as he unrolled the painting. "Neal…" she said, taking in the beauty of the piece before grounding herself. "If the FBI catches anyone with this—"

"They'll trace it back to me," he finished. "But if I don't put this in Keller's hands in an hour, El doesn't have a chance."


	9. Chapter 9

Agent Rice stood hidden behind an empty warehouse overlooking the docks. She had men stationed from every angle, with eyes on the streets, the water, and the roof. And with her man in place-six foot tall, roughly the right build, and in a slick suit and Caffrey's signature fedora- she was positive the dirt-bag wouldn't realize he'd walked into a trap until it was too late.

She checked her watch: 1:58. "All units check in," she called into her comm. "Any sign of our target?"

"Blue Team; negative on the visual."

"Red Team; no sign of the target."

"Black Team; we've got nothing."

Rice sighed in frustration, then straightened her shoulders and looked back toward the meet. "What about you, Lansing?" she asked her man out in the open. "Anything?"

The Caffrey look-alike brought his hand to his face to wipe a pretend bead of sweat from his forehead. "I don't—wait," he said, stopping suddenly and looking up. "I got movement on a warehouse in the Southwest corner."

* * *

><p>Neal walked briskly along the city streets, Sara close beside him. He didn't like bringing her into this, not just because Keller had wanted him alone; but because it once again put her in Keller's path, and Neal really hated it when Keller saw anything that Neal had (even if he didn't really have it).<p>

However, Sara had insisted, as she always did, that her equipment went where she went, and the con needed her equipment for this escapade, and so here they were, walking toward an empty lot together.

"So what's the deal with this place?" Sara asked. "Did you two pull a big score here or something?"

Neal didn't like talking about his history with Keller—it always became so personal. Keller always had a way of _making_ it personal. "I pulled a job out here once," he said simply. "Keller happened to be around, and helped out a little."

"And that's it?" Sara looked at him suspiciously. Neal sighed.

"It was awhile ago; I was allegedly stealing a Jim Hodges piece at the New Museum of Contemporary Art. As part of the plan, Kate took the piece and made for our rendezvous point, but she got cut off by some cops that showed up." Neal looked at the empty lot they arrived at. "I made a distraction, and she slipped into here. Keller happened to be around, and offered his assistance. We'd just met him a week before in Monaco, so she agreed." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "By the time I found her, he'd already arranged a fence to get the piece out of her hands. We worked together a little after that."

"So he got to play the hero and get in good with Kate," Sara deduced by his look, making an expression that clearly showed her equal distaste for the connection. "Did they—?"

Brown curls flew as he shook his head. "No," he said adamantly. Then, less certainly, "I don't think so." He looked at her. "He found ways to be around a lot, in the beginning, ways to split us up for jobs. But she always came home." He didn't voice that the time between Copenhagen and his conditional release from prison had been a long time though, as Keller loved to remind _him_…

The insurance investigator thought a moment. "So he sees this as a victory for him?"

"His first between us," Neal agreed. Coming out ahead of the bastard in Monaco had been so satisfying, he wished he could experience the feeling every day of the week.

"And that's why he's choosing this as where it all started and therefore a good meeting point?," she guessed.

Neal shrugged, and they entered the lot. "Maybe he just thinks Monaco's a bit far for such short notice."

* * *

><p>"Red Team, I need eyes on that building <em>now<em>," Rice called urgently. "Lansing, approach with extreme caution. Can anybody confirm that it's Keller?"

"We've just got word that there's an empty cargo ship docked about a half-mile downriver," a voice from the municipal van reported.

"I got an open door to the south-facing entrance," the exposed agent's voice murmured. "No sign of Keller…"

Suddenly the world flew into chaos as the building exploded. Rice stood momentarily dazed as the warehouse was engulfed in flames, debris flying like so many cards in the wind, before she flew from behind her spot toward her agent who'd been thrown backwards onto the ground from the shock wave.

"Man down!" she screamed into her communicator as she felt for a pulse. "Lansing!" She sighed in relief as she felt the thrum of a heartbeat and watched her agent's chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. "Call a bus: Lansing's out cold," she ordered, waiting momentarily for confirmation, then continued, "All teams check in!"

Rice turned her head this way and that as her group reported their status, looking for any sign of what had gone wrong. "What the _hell_ happened?"

* * *

><p>Neal watched as Keller stepped out from the shadows of the lot. He stepped forward to face the bastard full on, taking a protective step in front of Sara as he subtly gestured for her to stay behind him.<p>

"Caffrey," the con greeted his rival. He glanced at Sara with a deviant smile. "Ms. Ellis, you are looking particularly beautiful today."

"And you're looking quite psychotic," Sara replied, clenching her hand in what Neal could only guess was desire to be holding her gun.

Keller pulled out his own and gestured between the two of them. "I could have sworn my instructions were for you to come alone, not bring along a date."

"You gave me an hour to lose the FBI and my tracking anklet," Neal replied. "I couldn't get the key, so I adapted. " He looked back to Sara as she held up a GPS-jamming device. "Scrambles the signal for a two-mile radius."

Keller laughed. "Well done, Caffrey."

Neal didn't smile back. "Where's Elizabeth?"

Keller shrugged. "I told you: I give her to you _after_ I get the treasure."

"You skipped out on our last deal, so you'll forgive me if I don't believe you."

"You're willing to risk her life bargaining?"

"You're willing to walk away from the score of the century?"

"How do I even know you've got the score of the century?" Keller countered. "There's a rumor swirling that puts you and Moz on the outs, which would put the treasure out of your reach."

Neither said anything, locked in a standoff. Neal held his position, keeping his expression blank despite his fury at his problematic position. Stuck, he looked back at Sara, who pulled a cylinder container off of her shoulder and brought it forward. Neal tossed it to Keller.

The criminal pulled out the contents, investigating the canvas. "This wouldn't happen to be the same Degas forgery that the Feds confiscated just yesterday, would it?" he asked.

"The FBI has the forgery," Neal told him. "You have the real thing."

Keller examined the painting again. "Brilliant, Caffrey- You know, I had a hard time believing someone pulled a fast one on Rusty. I'm guessing _you_ switched them out?" He shook his head in admiration, then returned it to its container. "I've got a truck coming in one hour to move the loot," he told the consultant. "You get it and meet me there, I tell you where you partner's wife is." He handed Neal a piece of paper. "One hour- no anklet, no feds."

Keller began walking out the opposite gate, then turned around. "And Caffrey," he called out. "I've got my guys on speed dial. They expect my call every half hour. I don't call, say from being arrested or shot again, they have instructions to terminate the beautiful Mrs. Burke."

Neal watched him go, then led Sara away.

"What are we going to do now?" she asked.

"I have no idea," he told her.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Argh! That was not a good Caffrey-Keller standoff, I concede. I didn't want Keller to give him a phone call, but that was the only thing that made sense, so instead I just decided to pretend Neal gave in for now. Luckily there's a whole plan involved that doesn't use Neal's (or my) ability to negotiate :)


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** So this is happening at roughly the same time as the previous chapter- things are going to get really cramped for a little while. Sorry!

* * *

><p>El listened carefully for the subway rolling past, and found herself rubbing her chafed wrists subconsciously as she waited by the door. She'd be annoyed that Brooke hadn't thought to uncuff her in the last who-knows-how-many hours, but the girl was steadily looking worse for the wear and Elizabeth decided she was grateful that she was even thinking <em>this<em> clearly.

"You sure you can do this?" the blonde asked skeptically from her chair.

"More than I am that you could," Elizabeth replied, only half-joking. She wondered if Brooke noticed she was swaying slightly as she tried to keep her head up to maintain eye contact.

"Right," she conceded, taking a deep breath. "So: just remember to keep low to the floor and pause to listen at the second door. There should be a slight echo in the conversation if they're facing any way but the entrance. And remember to be fluid when you move—hesitation draws eyes." Brooke paused, and El held her breath as she watched the girl's own eyes become unfocused for a moment before clearing as she continued. "His phone is going to be on the corner next to the land-line and the stapler. If anyone moves—hide in the bathroom, then run when I give the signal."

El moved from her spot at the door back to the blonde's chair and she placed her hand lightly on her shoulder. "Everything's going to go fine—you'll see."

"Promise you'll run if I give the signal," her expression was desperate, and made all the more pitiful by being dirtied and discolored.

The brunette nodded, then slipped back into position just as the rolling of the cars came by. She slowly twisted the handle of the now-unlocked door and opened it a crack to sneak a glance into the hallway. She looked back once more at Brooke, then eased into the open corridor.

Making sure to stay low, Elizabeth passed the first door that contained the bathroom. She wrinkled her nose as she leaned against it, listening to the conversation coming from the open second door next to it.

"Right boss," Buckingham's voice was saying, the direction of the sound giving El the impression that he was pacing. "I got it—no word from you by half past and we take care of them. Yeah. Yeah, Ramsey's looking into it."

El couldn't hear the other, so she just hoped like hell and ducked past the door without looking, pausing briefly on the other side as she held her breath and listened.

"Yeah, we checked the docks this morning. They're still empty and ready to load," the voice continued, and the brunette quietly exhaled in relief.

Keeping down, Elizabeth crept further down the hall to where she saw a man facing a group of camera monitors: various screens with people wandering up and down stairwells, onto platforms, on the street, and one that displayed an empty hall that she would've bet money on was the hallway Brooke had said was on the other side of the exit.

She crept as quietly as she could, wondering how Brooke had thought this would work: if the man turned his head at all, he could easily see the woman squatting along the hallway and blow the whistle on all of them. However, as the wife of a Federal Agent, she summoned her courage and made her way to the desk, pressing herself up against the back so as little of her was visible from the man's seat as possible.

El turned slowly, inching up until her eyes could just see over the top, and then she realized why Brooke hadn't been worried: the idiot wasn't even watching the monitors—his eyes were completely trained on a muscle car magazine. The woman probably could've stood on the desk and tap danced and he wouldn't have turned his head. She moved her hands carefully onto the desk, quietly taking the small black phone from its spot and creeping back to the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Brooke was hunched over her chair, twitching slightly. Elizabeth ran to her, kneeling down so she could see into her fellow abductee's face.

"Brooke," she said coaxingly. The girl's breathing was shallow, and her eyes were half-closed. "Brooke? Come on honey, we're so close; don't do this."

Elizabeth watched as Brooke slowly shook herself awake, sitting up and trying to take a deep breath that caused her to break into a cough. Her face was drenched in sweat, and the pale color of her face was now tinged slightly green.

"Did you get it?" she asked, trying to straighten herself.

El held up the cell in triumph. "Assuming we get reception, Peter should be able to track us here," she told the girl happily, flipping the device open.

Suddenly, the phone beeped.

"I thought it was on silent- what did you push?" Brooke asked in confusion.

El stared at the phone in disbelief. "I didn't push anything—the battery's almost dead," she stated incredulously. "What the hell kind of criminal lets his cell phone battery run low?"

Brooke chuckled dryly. "Well, I guess when you have the Russian mob, the FBI, and a six-figure hit out on you, you end up scraping the bottom of the criminal barrel for what you can't do yourself," she observed. She looked at the other woman. "So what are we going to do?"

"When I was passing by the second door, I heard Buckingham talking," Elizabeth told the blonde. "I think Keller's going to the meet now—if he doesn't call them by half past, he's going to kill us."

Brooke's eyes went wide, and El wondered if this was the first time she'd ever really considered how this could end.

The blonde cleared her throat. "So, I guess you better make that phone call count."

Elizabeth nodded, and dialed Peter's cell.


	11. Chapter 11

Peter watched the hands on his watch tick by. He'd been sitting out on the patio, waiting for news from _someone_ about _something_. He hated being relegated to sitting at his house, especially since he couldn't stand seeing it filled with agents that weren't his team and missing El.

His first instinct when he'd left the Bureau was to go to Neal, to shake a plan out of him and save his wife. Even despite all of the trust issues flying around recently, Peter knew Neal would think of something, that he always did, and that together they'd figure it out and fix everything. That was why they cleared a ninety-three percent conviction rate at the Bureau; because they were two great minds that put plans in action and came out on top.

But now everything was being called into question by everyone: Peter was questioning Neal's loyalties, and Hughes was questioning Peter and Neal's ability to do their jobs, just to name the fore-runners. Peter believed in due process, believed in the system, but waiting while knowing Neal was probably putting something together half-cocked (like usual) and needed his help was killing him. Although, maybe, if Neal did have something, then putting two extra agents on him when he was supposed to get to Keller with none would just make things harder.

Peter was lost, with two many ideas and scenarios running through his head, and the woman who always had the answers was missing- in danger. So he agonizingly sat on his patio and waited.

At 2:05 pm, things had suddenly gotten interesting. Agents listening on their headphones started making calls and acting very busy—which implied something had not gone right down at the docks. Peter tried to pry information out of the worthless agents monitoring his home, but they wouldn't tell him anything without Rice's orders, and the agent wasn't answering her phone. He was _thisclose_ to beating the information out of them when Jones arrived, whispering instructions to the keeper-agents, who nodded and made for the door. His teammate then took Peter's arm and walked him back out to the patio, sitting down across from his boss.

"Hey Peter," he said quietly, nodding in greeting. "Thought you could use a break from the government-issued babysitters."

"Jones," Peter replied gratefully, shifting forward in his seat. "What the hell's going on? What happened down at the docks?"

"FBI set up one of Rice's guys to look like Caffrey to trap Keller, but the guy never showed. And then a warehouse nearby blew up."

"_It blew up_?" Peter asked in shock.

"Yeah," Jones replied. "Everyone's okay; apparently it was empty."

"Keller never showed," Peter asked, worry etching his features as he replayed Jones' words in his head. "What does that mean?"

Jones put his hand on Peter's arm. "We're not sure yet—everyone's still looking into it."

Just then, Jones' phone buzzed. He checked the screen, then put it on the table, pressing speaker. "Hey Diana; I'm with Peter."

"Diana, tell me you know something," Peter asked his agent.

"We checked surveillance. Got photos of some low-level Russians planting explosives in the warehouse and bomb squad found more in the boat. Rice thinks that they got wind of our meeting with Keller, and Gavrikov couldn't buy any more time."

"His boss got tired of playing nice," Peter summed up.

"We're guessing they're loading up the rest of their transports the same way," she continued. "Neal's probably right that Keller won't try to use them."

"Where is Neal anyways?" Jones asked.

"Rice sent him home before the meet with two agents sitting on him," Peter supplied.

"And he stayed there?" Jones asked skeptically.

"Not quite," Diana's voice responded from the speaker. "I just pulled up his tracker information: twenty minutes ago his GPS signal was suddenly jammed."

"Jammed?" Neal wasn't exactly known for his technical prowess. Usually it made Peter's job easier, restricting the con to either lift the key or cut the anklet. "So we have no idea where he is?"

"We have a two-mile window for his position between 1:50 and 2:05, which kept him in his radius and may explain why it didn't activate," the agent told him. "The signal suddenly cleared up two minutes ago—showed him at June's."

Peter looked up. "The meet wasn't at the docks—we all just assumed that was what Keller meant when he said 'where it all started.' Neal must have gone to wherever Keller really was," he told his team.

"But he still doesn't have the treasure, does he?" Jones said. "What do you think happened?"

Suddenly, Peter's cell phone rang. He checked the screen, not recognizing the number. "Hello?"

"Peter?"

Peter's eyes went wide, and he held the phone in a vice grip. "El?" he asked, his eyes involuntarily tearing up. "El, are you okay?" He pried his own fingers away from the cell, placing it on speaker and setting it next to Jones', where Diana was still on the line.

"Peter—" El's voice was hushed and slightly panicked. "I stole this from one of the guards. The battery's dying, can you trace it?"

"I'm on it," Jones called, running inside to grab a computer from one of the less useful agents.

"Jones is going to trace it, hon, just stay on line. Where are you?"

"We're near a platform—" Peter heard a _beep_, warning that the line was almost dead. "There's a restricted hallway with some construction guys, and I think [_beep_] one of the guys holding us may work for them. I think I heard one of them call another Ramsey."

"I'm looking up platforms near construction, boss," Diana's voice called from the other phone.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked, terrified of the steady tones that warned of the phone's failure. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay," El said, pausing. "But Brooke, the girl I'm with [_beep_]—her foot's broken and she's looking pretty bad Peter," Peter heard a soft scoff in the background. "You need to hurry."

"We're going to find you El," he promised his wife. "Jones," he called out, another tone sounding through the receiver. "How are we doing on that trace?"

Jones raised his hand in recognition of the request, fingers flying across the keyboard as he tried to pin down the number's location.

"Peter," came El's voice. "There's three of them, and if Keller doesn't call, they're going to—"

"El? El!" Peter shouted at the now disconnected line, picking it up and putting it to his ear. He paused for a moment, panic threatening to overtake him.

"Tell me we found them," he asked Jones anxiously.

Jones looked up. "We've narrowed it down to a five-mile radius in the financial district," he told him.

"I can do one better," Diana spoke up from the phone. "I've got a Zach Ramsey as a maintenance worker with a stack of priors including Breaking and Entering, Assault, and Aggravated Assault. I'm sending a photo. He's part of a crew working maintenance in three subway terminals near pre-war warehouses as of two weeks ago, two of which have a fountain on the ground level above it."

"That's the same guy that paid off the kid at the Bureau," Peter said, grinning at the mug shot she emailed him. "We've got them."

"What about Keller?" Jones asked.

Peter looked at the feds sitting in his house. "I need to get to Neal."

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: so I decided that the Russian mob needed to make another cameo in my story- mostly because I need someone to make violence, and that just never seems to be the FBI...


	12. Chapter 12

Neal and Sara were back at June's, and Neal was back to pacing the floor, although he did take a moment to brush his hand along hers every other trip or so past where she was sitting at the table. He was unbelievably grateful for what she'd done back there—for what she was doing now, supporting his play, even if it was just for Peter and Elizabeth's sake. The con wondered if she would ever understand the entirety of what she was doing for his sanity by just being here.

"So Keller needs a treasure in less than an hour, and if we detain him in any way, he's going to have his guys shoot Elizabeth," Sara summed up.

"He'll probably have them shoot her anyways—Keller never was a fan of loose ends…" Neal muttered reluctantly. "So he'll have the treasure, his guys go to prison for the kidnapping and murder, Elizabeth is dead, and Peter's and my life are ruined. It's a full run on the house."

"We need Peter," Sara opined, not for the first time. This had been her consistent piece of advice since she'd involved herself in Neal's plan. And every time Neal had to sadly remind her that he was the last person in the world (besides maybe Keller) Peter wanted to work with. "Neal, we can't make this work without him."

"Well, Peter wants nothing to do with me, so we're going to have to," Neal told her, starting his pacing again. He paused as he heard a knock at the door, looking up to see June let herself in.

"Sara, it's wonderful to see you again," she said pleasantly. "We've missed you around here."

"It's good to see you too, June," Sara replied.

June crossed the floor to where Neal stood. "Oh Neal," she soothed, touching his arm. "Do you remember what I told you the last time you threatened to wear out my floors with your pacing?"

Neal's head tilted as he gave the woman a curious half-smile. "You said everything would work out."

June's eyes danced in the mischievous way they did when she knew something. "And I believe that." She walked out the door, pausing to glance meaningfully from someone in the hallway to where Neal stood before she left.

* * *

><p>Peter crossed the street to June's home, ignoring the feds sipping their coffee and looking bored in their car. He rolled his eyes, completely unsurprised that Caffrey had managed to sneak around them, and knocked on the door.<p>

June opened the door. "Peter," she said happily. "I'm so glad you're here."

"I need to speak to Neal," Peter told her urgently.

"Of course," she replied, gesturing up the stairs. "He'll be glad you do."

As Peter made his way up the stairs and down the hall, he slowed as he heard voices.

"Where is it?"

"Let's just say that Alex has agreed to safeguard my retirement for a hefty portion of what _was _going to be your take."

"I can't tell you how much this means to me."

"_If a friend is in trouble, don't annoy him by asking him if there's anything you can do. Think of something appropriate and do it._ Edgar Watson Howe."

Peter smirked and pushed open the door. He looked to see Neal, Mozzie, and Sara standing around the table, the latter watching as the former two reconciled. His con's eyes lit up at the sight of him at the door, and Peter felt his chest tighten at the show of yearning in his partner. Of course, not knowing Peter had heard the end of the conversation, Neal's eyes shifted in the next second, looking to Mozzie standing next to him, and he looked like a child caught picking up a cigarette off the ground.

"Peter, I swear, this isn't what it looks like," he quickly explained, approaching the agent with his hands raised. "Mozzie really did leave—"

"I know, Neal," Peter told him, placing a hand on the con man's shoulder. He looked up at Mozzie, "And I appreciate him coming back."

"I would sooner become another mindless drone in the cogs of the system than let something happen to Mrs. Suit," Mozzie told him. "Taking Keller down in the process just makes the work that much more satisfying."

Peter let his gaze shift to the insurance investigator. "Sara," he greeted, nodding in acknowledgement. "Thanks for coming."

Sara crossed the room to stand by Neal, placing her hand on Peter's arm. "Anytime Peter," she replied with a smile and a significant glance to the younger man.

Peter walked over to the easel, looking over the various sketches and scribbles on the sheet that he guessed were the outline of a dock and a plan.

"Peter," Neal began. "About the meeting—"

"It wasn't at the docks," Peter supplied. "You slipped the agents outside and jammed the GPS signal on your tracker, I'm guessing with Sara's help." He glanced at Sara's only slightly guilty expression, then gestured to the canvas. "And now you're still strategizing, so I take it you have another meet?"

Neal nodded, apparently not surprised that the lawman had figured out everything. "Keller wants the treasure at the docks on North Fifth Street in Brooklyn. He says if I'm not alone, or if he's detained in any way, his men have orders to shoot Elizabeth."

"I know," Peter replied. He elaborated upon Neal's expression, "El managed to steal a phone. We've traced it to a subway terminal in the Financial District. I've got Rice sending a team down there now."

"So if I can stall Keller, we can take him down _and_ get El back," Neal put together excitedly.

Peter nodded, watching Neal's expression lighten slightly. He'd been taking this almost as hard as the agent was, and Peter, remembering Kramer's words about Neal wanting to be here, realized how alone Neal must have been feeling through all of this. He couldn't help but feel guilty as he took Neal's arm, bringing him back toward him.

"Neal...I can't back you up on this," he said to the other apologetically. "If El's at the terminal—"

"Find her," the blue eyes locking on his were understanding, which actually made Peter feel worse. "Make sure she gets out okay. I'll stall Keller as long as I can."

The two men nodded in agreement, and Peter glanced at the other two in the room pretending not to watch the interaction as they faced the notes on the canvas. He cleared his throat awkwardly, grasping his partner on the shoulder.

"I'll get Rice to call off the agents out front and deactivate your tracker," he told him, which was met with a chuckle by his con. "Neal," he said more seriously, meeting those blue eyes again, "Be careful."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Yea for the return of Mozzie and Neal/Sara and Neal/Peter! I know I reconciled everyone conspicuously fast, though it's not all completely rainbows and puppies, but I feel like once Peter felt like things were going to be okay, he'd take a step back and maybe forgive Neal a little. But that's just me (hence being _my_ fanfic).

**A/A/N:** Okay, I know the last time June told Neal "everything would work out", Kate blew up in a plane, but I was actually trying to draw a parallel between her saying it when Alex brought the box back and her saying it when Mozzie came back. So, yeah, let's ignore the "plane blowing up" connection, shall we?


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** So, super long chapter here. Lots going on though, and it needed to happen all at once.

* * *

><p>El stared at the useless phone, then back to Brooke. "I'm sure Peter will be here soon," she told her, trying to smile confidently for the blonde. "He was tracing the call, and his team will find us."<p>

Brooke coughed, spat a fluid Elizabeth told herself _wasn't_ blood, then took a deep breath. "Yeah," she said dubiously. "Well, I think I'm done sitting here waiting to be rescued." She used her good leg to push herself to the edge of her seat, groaning as she grabbed the back and pulled her body into an awkward standing position.

"What are you doing?" El asked, moving to guide the girl back to her chair; but Brooke shook her arm free, hobbling over to lean against the wall as she investigated the contents of the room. "Brooke, you're hurt and you're sick; you shouldn't be—"

"I'm _not_ going to die like this," Brooke told her, her green eyes flashing with intensity. "I'm not going to sit here, pathetic and useless, so they can just walk in the door and blow my brains out."

"Peter won't let that happen, he'll find us in time- and you can barely stand," Elizabeth reminded her.

The blonde wiped the sweat and blood away from her face. "Then until he gets here, I guess adrenaline and smarts will have to replace speed." She looked at the brunette, the determination in her eyes only slightly undermined by the trembling of her leg as it weakly supported her weight. "I'm getting out of here, Elizabeth—so either help me or get the hell out of my way."

El believed in Peter, but she knew what he would want for her. "What do you need me to do?"

Brooke smiled grimly. "We're going full-assault."

* * *

><p>Peter and Agent Rice stood at the corner of State Street and Whitehall with their teams. Hughes had put them back together after Elizabeth's call and the fiasco at the docks, as well as agreeing to setting Caffrey loose. <em>Too many complications all but threw out protocol on this one<em>, he'd told them in frustration. And besides, Peter'a team was the best, and Hughes trusted them.

"Okay Burke," she told him. "It's your lead on this one."

Peter looked at the group. "Okay, Neal's buying us some time with Keller, and we've got two potential buildings." He pointed at the map. "Here at South Ferry, and over at Whitehall."

He studied the map. "My team will take South Ferry," he told Rice, then spoke up to the rest of the group. "Everyone is in street clothes and on comms. If you see any sign of Ramsey or our abductees, call it in and proceed with caution. The Russians may still be looking for them as well, and they aren't afraid to get their hands dirty on this one."

"Caffrey's buying us thirty minutes," Rice called to the teams. "Let's make them count." As the agents began to separate, Rice met his eyes. "Good luck," she told him, and hustled down the block.

Peter quickly caught up with Diana and Jones. "Ramsey signed in at South Ferry this morning," Jones updated him.

"And this building has been under contract for reconstruction for three weeks," Diana added, flashing a picture of a rundown warehouse. "But there's no record of any work ever being done."

Peter looked at the blueprints. "Pre-war construction, ground-level fountain, and there's multiple lower-level corridors that run parallel to the tracks," he noted.

"Perfect place to cut and run if something goes wrong," Diana commented.

"Let's get the bastards."

* * *

><p>El had been sitting in the dark for five minutes now, she was pretty sure. After Brooke's brazen statement, the blonde had started limping around the room, rifling through the trash scattered on the ground. Elizabeth had watched the pitiful movement for a moment, then moved next to the other, grabbing the dirtied newspapers littering the floor and folding them stiffly. biting her lip as she strung them tightly against Brooke's misshapen foot to create a makeshift brace. Brooke stared at the device in surprise, then spoke a quick thanks before instructing El to sneak back out into the hall to turn off the lights to their closet from the security desk. Of course, when she had returned and closed the door, they were reduced to a pitch-black room, but apparently that didn't bother the injured girl at all. She'd simply instructed El to act more or less as a crutch, helping her redistribute her weight as she stood on one of the chairs, fiddling with the hanging lamp that had been their one source of light.<p>

After a minute, Elizabeth heard what sounded like a cord being pulled through a slot, and Brooke had asked her to help her down. From there the brunette supported the blonde as she made her way back to the door, with a slight jostling of the doorknob and tension in her muscles the only evidence anything was happening while Elizabeth's ears strained to listen for any sounds coming from the hallway.

"Okay," Brooke finally spoke up, and El let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Now," _grunt_," help me two steps to the right against the wall over here."

El conceded, slowly guiding the girl back toward the damp wall next to the door. She heard the sound of sloshing, then liquid being dumped against the door and ground.

"Good thing you didn't finish that," Brooke commented, panting as she moved to face the other in the dark. "Okay, hopefully that will do it."

El nodded, then realized Brooke couldn't see her. "Okay," she said. She paused. There were three guards-how many could whatever Brooke had done take out? "What if it doesn't?"

"It will," the blonde responded, but Elizabeth could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

El looked around the room, feeling stupid since it was still pitch black. She took a step away from the wall, only to have Brooke grab her arm. "What are you doing?" she hissed.

"Finding a back-up plan." she told her. She made her way slowly around the dark, feeling empty bottles and plastic containers and newspaper and cigarette butts. Then her groping hands touched cold metal, and she gingerly felt up the legs of the folding chair still sitting in the middle of the room.

She folded the chair against her chest, gripping the legs in her hand as she made her way back to her injured friend.

Brooke reached out and felt the furniture in El's hands.

"Just in case," El told her.

The other girl swallowed thickly. "Keep a grip with both hands- where the legs meet the bar."

El did as she was told, pressing her back against the wall and hugging the chair to her chest. "Now what?" she asked.

The blonde sighed. "Now we wait."

* * *

><p>Peter led his team toward the South Ferry terminal entrance. He looked at the building down the street, trying to guess if the beat-up looking cameras were working; and, if they were, whether the guards were watching for them.<p>

"Peter," Jones called, nodding to a vendor standing near the entrance with a refrigerated machine selling sandwiches.

They crossed over to where the old man was standing. "Do you sell egg salad?" Peter asked.

The man's expression crinkled as he smiled, turning to his unit. "It is your lucky day; it's my last one—" he said, pulling out a plastic container.

And staring directly into Peter's badge. "FBI—do you recognize either of these men?" he asked as Diana held up a picture of Keller and Ramsey.

The tanned old man frowned, brow furrowing. "This man," he told them, pointing to Ramsey. "He comes by every day and buys the egg salad and a water."

"Has he come by today?" Peter pressed.

"Yeah, but he just got two waters," the man replied. "Said he was heading out today."

Peter turned away from the vendor, sighing in frustration. He turned back and asked, "Did you see where he went?"

The man pointed down the street. "He always goes through the alley," he told them. "I thought it was strange because it's just a dead end."

Peter broke into a run, with Jones and Diana flanking him. "We've got a lock on Ramsey," he called into his comm. "Everyone hold your position, but be ready to move in on my signal."

Rice came in across the waves. "We're headed your way Burke," she told him.

* * *

><p>Elizabeth held her breath when she finally heard footfalls making their way down toward them. Brooke squeezed her hand, and El gripped the chair tightly.<p>

The doorknob rattled as someone swiveled the unbolted door in place. "Goddamn it guys," Buckingham's voice mumbled. "Could we _try_ to remember to lock the door?"

She felt the blonde grip her tighter, and El stepped away from the wall slightly, adjusting the chair in her hands.

The door opened, and one foot stepped into the room. "What the—?" the man's voice trailed off. "Shit! Benny, hit the lights, would ya?"

Suddenly the door started jerking as Buckingham's body started shaking, before finally creaking open when he slumped to the floor. As light poured in, El observed the stripped wires trailing from the lamp hanging from the ceiling tied to the metal doorknob, and the water left over from El's water bottle dripping from the knob into a puddle at the entrance.

"Jack? Jackson?" a voice called out, footsteps running into the room. El didn't even think: as soon as she saw the figure step forward, she brought the full weight of the chair across the guard's face, then crashing down onto the top of his head.

The two women stared for a moment at the unconscious men at their feet, then simultaneously shook themselves to action. Brooke stepped toward the door, pausing to spit on the guard and then murmur, "Sorry Buck—you chose the wrong side," before hobbling into the hallway.

Bracing herself against the wall, Brooke quickly limped toward the exit. Elizabeth knew to expect it, but when the door opened and a shrill alarm began to sound, she still jumped a little in surprise.

"Go!" Brooke shouted, and the brunette ran into the hall.

Neither of them expected Tyrell/Ramsey to already be out there.

* * *

><p>Peter entered the building quietly from the side entrance in the alley, pressing himself against the wall. He'd sent Diana and Jones around the front with instructions to report in at the first sign of Ramsey or an entrance to the lower levels.<p>

"Clear," Jones' voice came through the comm. "Everything's quiet on this side, Peter."

Peter looked around the tattered room he'd entered. "Any sign of a way downstairs?" he whispered, his footsteps creaking as he stepped across the plastic sheeting.

"Nothing yet, Boss," Diana reported.

Just then Peter found a large piece of plywood leaned against the wall. "Wait a sec, I may have something," he told them, pulling the material back to reveal a beat up door.

"Okay," he continued as he turned the knob, "I've got stairs leading downward with a light at the bottom." He crept into the stairwell, gun aimed at the light in front of him. "I'm going down," he whispered.

"We're right behind you," Diana's voice replied over the receiver.

When Peter reached the bottom of the stairs, he was surprised to see the tile flooring that the lamps hanging from the ceiling illuminated. It was actually nicer down here than in the warehouse above them. His assessment was interrupted by the loud whirring of tracks, drawing attention to the nearness of the subway.

"There are a lot of doors here guys," he noted, trying one, only to find it locked. He made his way slowly, gently turning each doorknob he reached, finding half of them locked, and the other half leading to closets. "It's like a freaking maze," he mumbled to himself.

Suddenly an alarm began sounding, echoing through the halls; then gunfire, followed by screams.

"Boss?" came Diana's worried voice.

"We've got shots fired down here," Peter shouted as he began sprinting toward the noise. "I need immediate back-up; everyone move in now!"

* * *

><p>TyrellRamsey pulled himself out of his stupor before the girls had recovered from theirs. He pulled out his gun and cocked it. "Don't move," he growled.

"Run!" Brooke yelled, pushing El into action. A shot went off, and the bullet rung against the metal chair the brunette hadn't even realized she was still holding. She dropped it with a shriek, and started racing down the hallway, half-dragging the blonde beside her.

El wasn't sure if Brooke was really hurt or really good at dodging bullets, but the girl began pulling her fellow abductee in zigzags through a corridor, slamming into the doors only long enough to jiggle the knob and look for an opening. Even when one of the man's bullets flew into the frame beside them, she only let out a scream before pushing off and continuing onward.

Suddenly they heard cursing and El spared a glance backward, noting that apparently the man had spent all of his bullets and was now racing after them. Brooke, eyes wide, seemed to notice the same thing, and when she found a door that opened, she threw herself inside and slammed it shut behind Elizabeth.

"I'm going to rip the two of you into pieces!" he screamed, slamming against the door the girls were bracing with their bodies for life.

"Okay," Brooke panted slightly. "My plan may have been slightly flawed."

"Peter will get here," Elizabeth said, pushing certainty into her breathless voice. "We just have to hold on—"

Suddenly the door burst open, the two girls flying backward. Tyrell/Ramsey loomed over them, eyes furious as he reloaded his clip slowly, purposely. El looked over to Brooke, but the fall had ripped the girl's newspaper brace, and she was gripping her foot tightly in an effort not to scream. The bastard also seemed to note this, and walked over, kicking her foot from her hands and grinning as she cried out.

"I remember in grade school dissecting Worms," he told her. "It was amazing—sharp object to the chest, and they'd still wriggle." He cocked the gun. "Let's see if that's still true."


	14. Chapter 14

Neal drove out to the docks in a "borrowed" U-haul, loaded up courtesy of Mozzie and fitted with a GPS tracking device under the axle courtesy of the FBI. He checked the clock—2:56—took a deep breath, and stepped out of the driver's seat, out onto the empty landing.

"And so we meet again," Keller's voice called out from behind him, and Neal turned toward the bane of his existence. "Right on time Neal," he smiled. "And the tracker?" The bastard asked, looking on curiously as Neal raised his pant leg to show a bare ankle. "Excellent. Good to know you can follow instructions. Okay; let's see it."

"Where's Elizabeth?" Neal demanded, holding his ground. He really hoped Peter could pull this off, because he felt like he was going to throw up.

Keller shook his head. "Uh uh—I told you: goods first, then your watchdog's missus. So go ahead and open her up."

The consultant glared at his rival, unmoving, and Keller pulled out his phone. "Really Caffrey?" he asked, smirking. "You want me to make the call that places you as the responsible party for the death of the wife of a federal agent? And not just any agent—your trusted partner?"

Neal finally shifted his feet, slowly making his way to the back of the truck. He slid open the door, displaying crate upon crate stamped with Nazi emblems across their old wooden construction, then turned back to face Keller, still glaring.

Keller grinned, waiting for Neal to move back down the ramp before climbing into the truck himself and pulling out a crowbar to open one of the larger containers. His eyes lit up as he caught sight of the gold-set ruby necklaces and other precious gems and jewelry hidden inside the nesting material that kept it insulated and safe.

"Goddamn," he murmured reverently, turning a large red pendant over in his hands. He turned to his nemesis. "It's nothing if not an overwhelming sensation, isn't it? To have everything you could possibly imagine in the palm of your hand."

Again he raised his gun, using it to gesture the CI further toward the side of the truck. The criminal's hand tilted the ruby again so it reflected the sunlight, then grinned. "You know, I might have you stick around a little longer- give me a guided tour through everything in this truck. You could think of it as one of those transference ceremonies."

Neal _really_ wanted to punch the guy. "Sure," he replied, schooling his fury into a cool exterior. "I could start with that piece in your hand- how much time do we have before your guy gets here? Or did you want me to come with?"

Keller smiled. "Yeah right, Caffrey, and give you more time to try to pull one over on me? I've got a better idea." Letting his gaze shift from the man to his hand, the bastard watched Neal as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell, dialing a number he'd come to enjoy contacting over the last twenty-four hours.

* * *

><p>Peter Burke was sitting in a daze on a car parked along the street. After being inside for so long, everyone had insisted he get some air, and he'd finally agreed. He stared at nothing in particular, feeling far away from everything, and slightly nauseous.<p>

Suddenly, his burn phone began to buzz. His eyes flashed, and he put it to his ear. "Keller."

"Special Agent Burke," a sickly arrogant voice greeted him. "Do you have your personal phone with you? I'm sending you a special delivery."

Peter's cell buzzed and he flipped it open to find a picture of a U-haul illuminated with numerous crates he recognized from the Nazi sub.

"Hell of a day, huh Agent Burke?" the voice continued gleefully. "I mean, your wife's missing, and now you finally have proof that your partner's been keeping secrets all this time." He laughed. "Not just keeping secrets, but running around on you, big time. I mean, if your _wife_ is anything like this, I might have to have another chat with her, you know?"

The agent's eyes blazed. "I'm going to catch you, you son of a bitch, and I'll have you _begging_ for me to give you to the Russians before I lock you away—"

"Agent Burke—that is completely counterproductive," Keller responded cooly. "After all, it's not like you ever trusted _me_. But right here in front of me is the infamous Neal Caffrey, your partner, with billions in stolen Nazi treasure. I mean, how many times have you stuck out your neck for this guy, really? How many times have you put your badge, your life on the line for him? And all to find that he'd been playing you this for the entirety of your working relationship? That's got to sting. So, as a favor to you, I'm going to give you this option." Suddenly Peter's eyes went wide as he heard the _click_ of a gun cocking over the phone. "A one time, backdoor kind of deal. Just be honest—I mean, do you really want him to just go back to prison, knowing full well that he could just escape, or do you just kinda wish he'd... drop dead for all the trouble he's caused you?"

"Keller—" Peter warned.

"No, seriously Peter—man to man. If it wasn't illegal or unethical or whatever rules hold you back. I mean, he betrayed your _trust_, caused the kidnapping of your _wife_. If it weren't for him, right now you'd be sitting at home with your lovely Elizabeth, drinking a beer, watching the game- maybe petting your dog, you know? Neal- he probably hasn't thought about anybody but himself since before the two of you met. Are you really telling me you _wouldn't_ shoot Caffrey if you had the chance?"

Peter was in the entirely wrong part of the city, but he could see in his mind's eye Neal on the other end of the gun: hands open, slightly raised; brown curls tossing gently in the wind; blue eyes wide with uncertainty, pained, but still strong, as if he was just considering his next move; mouth open just a slit while he held his breath, waiting.

"Neal's a pain in the ass, Keller," the agent told him. "But he's _my_ pain in the ass. He's my partner, and my friend; and if you shoot him—"

Suddenly, for the second time that day, Peter heard guns in the distance: his mouth dropped in horror as he heard two shots ring out through the phone before it suddenly disconnected.

"Neal? Neal!" He screamed, and Hughes ran from the entrance of the hospital where he'd stationed agents with Brooke and Elizabeth toward where Peter was still yelling into the phone.

"We've got shots fired, and Keller disconnected the line," he told his boss breathlessly, cursing himself for letting Neal meet up with the psycho. "Neal could be down. We've got to get over there."

"Rice and Barrigan should almost be there with the team," Hughes told him, sliding into the seat as Peter threw the car into drive.

The supervisor grabbed his radio and spoke urgently into the transmitter, "We've got gunfire at Caffrey's location at the docks. Caffrey's status is unknown. Call an ambulance for the area, and all units move now for back-up. Go! _Go!_" he ordered as the car screamed out of the parking lot.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N**: Okay, someone commented on the random jump from El/Brooke being in peril to suddenly being in the hospital- I promise I will get back to that whole missing scene, I just want to finish this bit first. So be patient and enjoy the chapter, knowing that it will all make sense eventually.

* * *

><p>Neal stared as Keller discussed his fate with Peter over the phone. He stood silently, hands up and open almost at chest level; hair tossing about in the wind; eyes wide; and mouth slightly parted as he held his breath, waiting. He listened to the psychopath list all of the reasons Peter should give up on Neal, and his heart sank as he realized that the dirt bag wasn't really wrong. Even as he cocked the gun, the con could only focus on the words as Keller spoke them.<p>

_I mean, do you really want him to go back to prison, knowing full well that he could just escape, or do you just kinda wish he'd drop dead for all the trouble he's caused you?_

Neal knew Peter—knew the agent would _never_ give Keller that kind of opening, that he didn't really want Neal _dead_. Although, if he was answering his phone, that meant that they'd found Keller's guys, and Neal wondered how they'd found Elizabeth…

_If it wasn't illegal or unethical or whatever rules hold you back… Are you really telling me you _wouldn't_ shoot Caffrey if you had the chance?_

Neal hated Keller. The man always had a way of pushing his buttons; of voicing opinions or questions that always got Neal to act rashly; got him into trouble. And now Neal was staring at Keller instead of the gun, his eyes wide with curiosity over Peter's answer—because, despite knowing what Peter would say to the criminal, Neal had, on some level, been wondering the same thing since yesterday. Neal may have made his choice about which side of the line he wanted to be on, but did he make it too late?

Keller smiled at what he heard on the phone, although Neal never could understand what went on in the sadist's head. When he took aim though, Neal decided the reason behind the smile was pretty much irrelevant.

Then a shot rang out, and a bullet- not from the gun in front of him- slammed into the crate behind Keller. And then another shot, just missing his head, instead lodging into the bastard's phone, destroying the connection, along with the device itself, and eliciting a sharp cry from the criminal.

Neal didn't have a gun, and since the FBI weren't known for a "shoot first, talk second" policy, he knew he likely wasn't exempt from the sudden onslaught of ammunition. He glanced around and saw three dark figures half-hidden behind various buildings not one hundred feet away starting to empty their clips at the two exposed men. Their grim faces caused Neal to almost laugh—he had wondered when Keller being on the Russian Mob and every hit man's most wanted list would catch up with him. Of course, the CI was kind of hoping it wouldn't be with _him_ standing right there next to his rival, in an empty lot with little cover.

The two bolted for shelter, the blue-eyed consultant reaching the side of the truck facing toward the water-away from the warehouses and the bullets- and he breathed a small sigh of relief when he felt the metal behind him offer some protection from the hail of gunfire. He knew the FBI was on their way—their plan was to rush in as soon as El was located. Yet, as bullets rained down from an unseen source, he couldn't help but hope they were closer than he had originally guessed.

And then there was Keller. Neal watched as his rival braced himself up against a conveniently-placed piece of scrap metal, cursing in that damn accent under his breath and wrapping part of his now-shredded jacket around his wounded hand to stifle the blood flow. The two men looked at each other from their covers as the fire temporarily paused.

_Well,_ Neal couldn't help but think. _At least _Keller_ can't shoot me_.

Apparently, a variation of that same thought seemed to cross the other man's mind at the same moment, because he suddenly began shifting from side to side, craning his neck from behind his shelter to find his gun, and Neal realized he didn't want to find out if Keller had any skill with his left hand.

They both saw the weapon at the same time. Laying about ten feet from where Neal crouched, the gun had been dropped in the surprise of the attack and now lay on the ground, a deadly black shape, surrounded by blood stains and dark plastic fragments of electronics that contrasted starkly with the bland gray of the sunlit pier. Neal's eyes shifted from the gun, to Keller, to the unknown assailants in the distance. He watched the cogs turn in his nemesis' eyes.

"Ah, sh—" he cursed under his breath, standing and sprinting for the weapon at the same time Keller did. The gunfire immediately recommenced, and Neal's subconscious began running on loop as it reminded him how much he hated guns.

Neal always was the quicker of the two however, so he wasn't surprised that he reached the weapon first. He planted his foot over the dirt's crimson stains, pushing off toward the other side of the truck, zigzagging around in the direction of the cab, working his ass off to avoid being caught by Keller, whom he didn't even have time to look around for, or get shot by the mystery men with guns out in the distance.

He'd just rounded the first corner of the front of the U-haul when he heard his saving grace, which curiously sounded off in the form of Agent Kimberly Rice. "FBI! Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air!"

Neal was so relieved he didn't realize that the shots hadn't completely stopped—he vaguely registered the echo of another round before he suddenly felt a blinding pain in his shoulder, radiating throughout his torso. Completely bewildered, the last thought that formed in his head was puzzlement as he found the ground moving at an unnatural speed as it rose up to meet him.


	16. Chapter 16

Peter sat at the edge of his cot as he watched the rise and fall of his wife's chest. They'd both been through hell, and seeing her safe and sound next to him, even in a hospital room, had released the tourniquet that had been strapped around his chest all day. He took a long, luxurious breath himself and sighed contentedly, reaching over and rubbing her bandaged arm gently.

* * *

><p>Running through the warehouse had been terrifying: to be so close and so far away- too far away, he'd been afraid. He had finally found the damn door he'd been looking for about five from the end, which amazingly had opened into <em>another<em> hallway full of damn doors. If he'd been less focused he would have screamed at the insanity of it all. Luckily, his eyes had gone straight across and down one door to the right, where a giant oaf was looming just inside the room with his muscles tensed in a classic position. Peter swore that _"FBI, drop your weapon!" _never sounded as satisfying as it did in that moment of watching what turned out to be the last of Keller's men angrily lower his hands.

Diana had taken the pleasure of arresting the Zach Ramsey, and the backup reported finding two other men knocked unconscious seconds later. Meanwhile, Peter swore his heart stopped when he stepped into the room and finally saw El—dirty and sweaty and bloody and practically crying in relief. He swooped over to her as Jones called in an ambulance, checking the vitals of the blonde that was no doubt Brooke Werner, a bruised and bloody mess panting to keep from passing out where she lay.

Peter and his wife had sat in an eternal moment on that disgusting, dirty floor; eyes locked as they remained just staring at each other with tear-filled eyes, reveling in the relief of finding each other once again. Of course, the moment was ruined when El suddenly winced in pain, and Peter realized a bullet had grazed his wife's forearm and she was bleeding. The ambulance had arrived soon after and loaded up both girls, carrying them off to Bellevue.

Brooke was treated with a heavy dose of antibiotics for a severe infection and her broken ankle had to be re-broken and set properly. While the doctors took her into surgery to clean her up and begin treatment, another team tried to examine his wife while Peter hovered, flashing his badge fanatically in an effort to stay as close to the woman as humanly possible. Since she only had minor scratches and bruising from her ordeal, the doctor was lenient, and patching up the open tear from the graze, had cleared El to go clean herself up with the help of a nurse.

While she was gone, the doctor explained her decision to keep his wife overnight in the hospital for observation, discussing the potential trauma associated with this type of situation. Peter nodded in understanding, and when El returned, looking much better in a pair of sweats and a nightshirt someone on his team had dutifully brought from his home, he tried to be calm and reassuring as he explained the doctor's decision.

Of course, his wife was too clever to believe her husband's tone: she wrapped him up in a tight hug, molding her body against his and whispering words of comfort while FBI Special Agent Peter Burke broke down, barely able to breathe at the weight of almost losing his wife and the relief of finding her safe again, even if she was confined to an overnight stay in the hospital instead of back home in their bed.

For everything Peter had been through, however, it wasn't over after his wife's safety was ensured. He'd been informed of the team's movement to Neal's location, and Peter wanted to be there to watch that bastard Keller get taken down. So when Elizabeth had drifted off to sleep, Hughes suggested that he take a moment to collect himself before the two of them drove out to the docks.

And then Keller's call. All of the adrenaline that had ravaged his body searching for El now made a second trip as he heard the gunfire that put his partner—con man or not—in danger.

They'd just gotten off of the Williamsburg Bridge when Rice's call came in: shots fired, visual on Caffrey, Keller was down. They were a minute away from the scene when Rice's voice came across the radio, screaming for a second bus, that Neal had been hit. Peter felt the blood drain from his face, and he was rushing, stumbling from the car the second he'd screeched to a halt at the scene. The ambulance was just behind him, and Peter had enough time to crouch over Neal, pressing his jacket on the now-bleeding hole that had ripped through his jacket and dress shirt.

"Come on Neal," he pleaded, wondering where the hell the EMTs were. "You've done a lot of stupid things today, but you're not going to finish like this—not after everything. Just hold on."

They'd loaded Neal and Keller up then, rushing them both to the same hospital as El and Brooke. Peter let Rice handle Keller, instead spending the majority of his time running back and forth between his wife and Neal. When the doctor reported it had just been a ricochet, Neal would be fine, Peter headed back to Elizabeth's room, which his wife had convinced some sympathetic orderlies to scrounge up an extra cot to place beside her own for him so her husband could try to get some sleep. It may have been all for naught, however, as he kept ducking out every now and then to check on the recovering con man. When Sara had shown up soon after, he'd been extremely grateful that someone else could also be there for Neal and had handed her his FBI windbreaker in order to circumvent any nurses' questions or attempts to implement visiting hours.

* * *

><p>"Hey hun," El whispered, stirring him from his thoughts. He looked into her eyes, her bright, beautiful blue eyes, and smiled, his own brown ones threatening to tear up again. "Have you gotten any sleep?"<p>

He shrugged, scooting closer to the edge of his cot to be nearer to her. "A little," he lied.

She shook her head slightly, obviously not believing him. "You worried about Neal?" she asked.

"I'm worried about you," he told her, bringing her hand to his lips and squeezing it gently between his fingers. Upon another scrutinizing look from the love of his life, he shrugged again. "And maybe Neal a little—it's 85-15; 70-30 max." He adjusted his torso to face her better. "I don't want to talk about Neal now," he told her.

The gorgeous brunette smirked as she brought her hand toward Peter's face, tracing along his jaw lightly. "It's okay to be worried—you care about him, and he did get shot."

"So did you; and anyways, you were the one that said he was going to have to deal with the consequences for his actions," Peter reminded her.

"It's just a graze, and yes, I did say that," she agreed. "That doesn't mean you can't want to help him. And besides, I doubt you thought one of the consequences would be a standoff with Keller and the Russian Mob."

The agent sighed, allowing himself to flop back onto the uncomfortable bed. "I don't know what to do," he told her. "What he did was commit a major felony behind my back, knowing full well that it would send him back to prison _for good_, and still-a part of me wants to protect him."

"Because he matters to you," the woman reminded him. "Whether you want to admit it right now or not Peter, Neal's not just your CI—he's your friend." He considered the words again as she echoed Kramer's earlier thoughts.

He smiled, temporarily pulled from his dilemma as he felt El crawl across the bed to rest her head on his chest. Even in this stark white room, on these horrible beds with stiff sheets, machines dotting the walls, and an awful buzzing noise that seemed to accompany all hospitals—he couldn't help but think that this moment was perfect. The fragrance of his wife's hair wafting towards him; her skin soft and gentle as it maintained its grasp on his hand; and the quiet, steady thrumming of both their hearts, completely in rhythm, perfectly matched.

Peter couldn't help it. For the umpteenth time in the last twelve hours, he found himself overwhelmed by the raw emotion of the day's events and felt his eyes welling up, tears silently coursing down his cheeks.

Of course Elizabeth noticed. She raised herself up to face him, "Hun," she whispered, kissing his cheek and hugging him tightly.

"I could've lost you today," he whispered, clinging to her as he voiced the terrifying idea. "Both of you. I could have…"

El just maintained their tight embrace and whispered soothing words, waiting for Peter to finish.

"It's all my fault," he whispered.

"Never," she told him firmly. "It's not your fault, or Neal's, or anyone's but Keller's. Don't you ever think for one minute that this was something _anyone_ could have seen coming Peter. You are a wonderful husband, and a wonderful agent, and you are not responsible for _any_ of this."

He shut his eyes tightly to block out the awful thoughts, taking steadying breaths as his amazing wife pressed gently into his neck, smoothing out the tension.

"I'm sorry," he told her, roughly brushing the dampness from his eyes. "You'd think it was me here for observation, the way I'm freaking out."

Elizabeth smiled, kissing him softly. "It's been a really hard day for both of us," she told him, entwining their hands together; letting them both take comfort in the other. "I was so scared. But I never doubted you'd find us."

Peter chuckled. "And yet you felt the need to break out."

"Well, Brooke was getting anxious. She threatened to hobble away, with or without me—I couldn't let her injure her ankle even more."

The two laughed quietly. "I take it booby-trapping the door was her idea?" Peter asked. El nodded. "How'd she muster up enough power to take out the second guy?"

El grinned. "That was me."

Peter's face went wide with surprise. "You? You knocked out that guy with a chair?" His wife giggled, and the agent pulled her into his chest. "Just when I think I know, you find another way to show me just how amazing you are."

They lay there together in comfortable silence, Peter listening as El's breathing became steady and she drifted back to sleep, and he gingerly replaced her onto her (slightly) more comfortable bed. He then stood to walk down the hall to the bathroom to wash his face and stretch his legs.

* * *

><p>While heading back he saw the indisputable stride of Sara Ellis, a coffee in each hand, as a man in scrubs walked beside her carrying a cot. Peter waved, and she murmured something to the other man before breaking off from her path and stand by the agent.<p>

"Hey," she greeted him, handing him a cup. "How's Elizabeth?"

"She's good," Peter told her, nodding. "She's resting right now; I think she's going to be okay." He took a sip of the liquid. "Gah-" he spat, face warping in surprise. "This isn't coffee."

"No; it's three in the morning and you just finished an ordeal that's left you physically and mentally exhausted- it's tea." Sara gave him an appraising look. "How are you holding up?"

"Oh you know," he began, and then met her gaze. "I'm exhausted," the man admitted. "But I think I'm afraid of what might change if I close my eyes. I'm just still too worked up to sleep yet; maybe once we get home."

"Yeah," Sara placated him. "Well, just to take something off of your plate: Neal's awake." She explained at his surprised expression. "He came around a little while ago; I was going to let him rest until the morning," she told him.

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," Peter agreed. "I don't think it's too much to put things off a couple more hours. How's Brooke?"

"Still playing possum," Sara told him. "I don't think she wants to talk to anyone with a badge, and running around in an FBI windbreaker is making me look somewhat suspicious." She glanced at the agent. "You worried?"

"Nah," he replied, shaking his head. "After associating with the company Neal keeps, I'm starting to think that just may be some people's natural state."

"Well, now that Neal's okay, I think I'm going to set up a cot in the room," Sara told Peter. "Maybe get in a couple hours of rest myself."

"Absolutely," Peter told her. "You deserve it. And Sara?" she looked back at him. "Thank you, for the tea...and your part in all of this. I'm not sure what you did, but I appreciate it."

"Anytime Peter," Sara smiled, then turned and headed back to the con's room.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I know, El really should be having more issues than this, but I honestly see Peter as the one that's going to break first- he totally seems like the more emotional of the two. Plus, he really has just been put through the wringer (and he's not even done!), so I figured if just one was going to fall apart tonight, it'd probably be him.

**A/A/N**: Just to toss out any weird readings into the Brooke thing- she's not a bad guy or scheming or anything; she just doesn't like Feds (what good fence does?)


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N**: And once again, we go back in time about fifteen minutes or so in order to catch a scene happening simultaneously...

* * *

><p>Neal awoke to a steady beeping from somewhere in the room. He was lying on a bed that was definitely not his (way too firm), and upon opening his eyes noted that it was nighttime.<p>

He shifted, blinking hard and trying to sit up and get his bearings, but a firm pressure kept him down on the bed. The con followed the well-manicured hand on his chest to see it attached to Sara Ellis, wearing an FBI windbreaker and sighing in relief as she used the hand not against Neal's torso to move a pile of folders from her lap to the floor.

"Sara," he murmured, vaguely registering that his body felt somewhat surreal—a little buzzed maybe. "You're here."

"Shh, Neal: I'm right here," she assured him, letting her hand slide to his. "Mozzie called earlier—I think he's taking care of your wine collection until you're released."

"Where's here?"

"Bellevue Hospital. You got hit by a ricocheting bullet during your little showdown with Keller," she told him, her thumb grazing his knuckles gently. Neal, impulsive as always, reached to touch his shoulder as the memory of the incident flooded back to him. Stupid decision, as he winced with pain at the pressure in touching his gauze-padded injury.

"Elizabeth?" he asked, eyes widening in suspense as lucidity returned.

Sara smiled comfortingly. "She's going to be fine Neal— Peter's with her right down the hall." She patted his hand. "They're both getting some rest, which is what you should be doing too. It's been a long twenty-four-plus hours."

"Look who's talking," the con told her, nodding at the files on the floor. "What, work couldn't wait another day?"

"Busy work," she explained with a shrug. "I just wanted to be here when—" she trailed off, and Neal's face lit up in appreciation of the amazing woman who still cared enough to stand by him. "I'm really glad you're okay Neal."

"Me too," he told her with a chuckle. "Thanks, for everything—for being here."

She nodded, smiling as she squeezed his hand. "I'm going to grab some tea, maybe a cot," she told him. "You mind if I stick around a little longer?"

"Not at all," he replied, letting his peaceful expression linger as she stood. "Sara?" he called, trying to keep his voice casual, to maintain a normal level of friendly concern-and failing miserably. "How's Peter?"

Sara let her gaze linger on the man as she stood half in, half out of the doorway. Neal kept his face calm as she slowly walked back to him and took his hand again.

"Physically, he's fine Neal," she told him. "A little tired and overwhelmed, but some rest and Elizabeth should fix that up. Emotionally…" her voice trailed off and her green eyes gave him a significant look.

"I really messed things up, huh?"

"I think you really hurt him, Neal, and the damages may be worse than you'd like." Neal had to give the woman credit; she kept her eyes steady on him while she told him the painful reality, although he could tell it hurt her to do so. "And I don't think anyone knows how bad the consequences are for all of this yet. The Degas alone…"

Neal let his head drop at the mention of the painting. Of course they would have recovered it, authenticated it, and the whole Bureau would know that the treasure had survived. It had helped save El, Neal was sure, and he would have done it again in a heartbeat, but going back to prison for life…well, Peter always said he never thought things through.

"Hey," Sara's voice spoke up as she nudged him softly. He looked back up at her and she leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Whatever happens, I really think you did the right thing Neal."

Yeah, so did he. Even if that was all he had to take with him to the land of orange jump suits and six-by-ten feet of personal space. "Thanks," he told her. "Why don't you go grab that cot and we'll get some sleep?"

She nodded, and Neal watched her as she left the room. When she was gone, he made a second attempt to sit up, moving _very_ slowly this time. He looked around, and noticed for the first time that his was not the only occupied hospital bed stationed in the room.

A twenty-something-year old blonde was lying quite still in the bed across from him, her heart rate monitor steady. Anyone else would have thought her to be sleeping, except Neal saw a slight glow in her Kelly green eyes reflecting the moonlight as she watched him.

"Bookworm?" he guessed. "Brooke Werner?"

"Neal Caffrey," she replied, giving up the façade and shifting upward to sit. Neal caught sight of multiple bruises and bandages before she readjusted her hospital gown. "That's the first time your girlfriend's left since they brought you in here."

Neal didn't bother to correct her mislabel; it was kind of nice to pretend he and Sara were still together while it lasted. "What time is it?"

She chuckled. "A little past three. You've been out awhile—they took you to surgery to pull out the slug, and I think the pain medication and stress left you dead after that."

"Keller?" he'd forgotten to ask Sara what had happened to him.

"Guess third time's not so lucky," she told him with a slight relish he didn't blame her for. "Not dead, but with a shattered hand and a fractured T-4 vertebra, he's going to have one hell of a time pulling anything over anybody. _And_ he still has to deal with the Mob."

"So that wasn't them at the docks?"

"Allegedly, it was some low-level thugs that claimed-in_ heavy Russian accents_- that Keller jilted them out of a random drug deal," she told him, rolling her eyes. "Disposable." Brooke sighed as she pulled herself out of bed, unhooking her wires and IV's and pausing at the window. "Seems to be a recurring theme lately."

"How are you holding up?" he asked her, noting the cast.

"Eh," she replied, turning in slow motion to show off her various bandages. "Oblique fracture on the lower tibia, bruised ribs and everything else, recovering from an infection; but I'll live." She walked over to his bed and took the seat Sara had left. "I've been on antibiotics and pain meds for the last eight hours, so I think I'll be fine."

Neal said nothing, so she continued, combing her fingers through her recently cleaned corn-silk strands, "Elizabeth's okay too, you know." Neal nodded. "Couple of bumps and bruises, but mostly they're just keeping her overnight for observation. Emotional stuff; that's why she's not _here_ here."

Neal's eyes cast downward. _Emotional stuff._ He wondered how badly this whole situation would traumatize the woman he cared about almost as much as Peter. "I'm just glad she's going to be alright," he told her.

"Her husband's been by a lot," she added, apparently trying to cheer him up. "Fed's been checking in all the time to see how you were. Seemed like it really tore him up he couldn't be in both places at once—" she looked away again. "—like you're really important, you know?"

Neal could hear the slight tinge of sadness in her voice. "Has your dad been by?"

She looked surprised, then masked her face in indifference, brushing a strand of hair behind her ears. "Nah," she told him. "I think this place…you know, with cops everywhere and everything…I'm sure-later…" She let her sentence die unfinished.

Neal nodded his head, a little worm of thought crawling through his conscious. "Do you think you'll ever forgive him?"

"For not being here?" she asked, arching her eyebrows. When he said nothing, she corrected herself, "For everything." He shrugged, and so did she, wrinkling her nose as she gingerly touched her ribcage in reaction to the gesture.

"It's complicated," she finally told him. "I mean, I'm angry, and the damage—physical and otherwise—it's exhausting to even think about. But…I don't know. He didn't _mean_ to, right?"

"But maybe if he hadn't been involved in all of this," Neal pushed. "If he'd never gotten involved with Keller, never been in the Mob; it never would've happened, right? I mean, can you forgive someone for practically _causing_ your involvement in the situation?"

Brooke tilted her head to study her roommate, pressing her lips together. "We're not talking about my dad and me," she confirmed to herself. She looked back toward the door for a moment, shifting the chair closer to the con man's bed.

"You look like you could use a story," she told him, and Neal gave her a quizzical look.

"Once upon a time," she told him. "There was a college student from UC Berkley working toward her doctorate. She was doing a dissertation on the the Symbolism of King Hamlet's Ghost, and it was brilliant."

"Really?" Neal replied, and the girl smirked. "And what happened to this girl?"

"She heard about a new exhibit going on display at the Fleischer Museum in San Francisco—a two month display of Mikhail Vrubel's work, including his illustrations from a priceless 1887 edition of _Hamlet_."

Brooke leaned in closer. "Now, you can understand; the girl's entire thesis- her world for the last five years- was based on this play, and recently she'd discovered that her father—whom her mother had insisted on keeping out of her daughter's life despite his monetary contributions and her imparting pictures and updates—was full-blooded Russian. Throw in that she was a bit of a daredevil, like her mom, and it was regular kismet—the ultimate tribute heist."

"Destiny," Neal agreed, propping himself up further on the pillows, enjoying the story of a good "theoretical" score. "So how did she pull it off?"

"Hypothetically, she had it all planned out," the green eyes shone in excitement. "She memorized the guard and staff schedules, scouted the cameras, had a perfect laser key made to open the display case without triggering the alarm, all the while pulling a misdirect by faking a hit on the Gourin exhibit on the far side of the building using timed-release liquid nitrogen charges against the heat sensors, then escaping from the roof by hang-gliding off the eastern side to another building a mile downhill and an off-the-books mercedes all set for the getaway." The young girl grinned. "It was golden."

"And?" Neal prodded.

"And then, a week after her dissertation and the day before the heist was meant to go down, the girl got a call that her mother had collapsed during a simple drop on Napoleonic Francs back in San Diego," Brooke told him. Neal felt all of the air get sucked out of the room as her eyes drifted toward the window again, shadows playing on her discolored skin. "She jumped the first plane to meet her at the hospital, and by then they'd already found the mass and diagnosed it."

Neal watched as the girl fell back against the chair, causing it to slide away from his bed. "We went through procedure after procedure, medication after medication. And the drugs made her sick and the treatments made her look _awful_, and the whole time the cancer just got worse." The blonde covered her face with her hands, not noticing her change in pronouns. "It was excruciating to watch."

The con put his hand over hers in sympathy. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She looked up at him, a sad smile on her face. "You read my file?" she asked. When he nodded, she continued, "So you know my mother died approximately six months ago."

Neal nodded again, "Right before you came out here to find Gavrikov."

Brooke's eyes drifted to the floor, and the con had an ominous feeling. "Yeah, well; what's not in the file is that a week before she died, my mom fell into a coma, and for two days I watched a machine breathe for her." She finally forced herself to look up at him. "The day my mother died, I was allegedly in San Francisco breaking into the security vault of the Fleischer and stealing the _Hamlet_. When I got the news that she was gone, I was sitting in an airport in Chicago."

The room was silent except for the steady beep of Neal's heart monitor. The con had heard a lot of stories in his life, had done a lot of questionable things in his own past, but he was at a loss for words at the girl's confession.

Brooke shifted back to her feet, breathing deep as she seemed to blink back tears, then wobbled to her bed, pulling out a clean pair of blue nursing scrubs.

"I sent money to a friend to take care of everything," she concluded, her back turned to him as she slipped the shirt gingerly over her head. "But I didn't go to her funeral, the cemetery—hell, I haven't even been back to the _state_ since." She finished adjusting the pants around her cast, attaching a nurse's name-tag before grabbing her bag and walking back to Neal.

"I made a choice that day, Neal Caffrey, and honestly?" she told him flatly. "It kills me to look in the mirror every day and know I made the wrong one. You made a mistake, and it's going to probably cause all sorts of hurt and fall-out. But _you_ made the right choice—you stayed here. It's because of _you_ that Elizabeth is in the room down the hall and not downstairs in the morgue. And after all of the anger and hysterics finally blow over, they're going to remember that." She touched his arm, smiling gently. "So just hold onto that, okay?"

He watched her walk away, "You going to be okay getting out of here?" he asked.

She glanced at her foot, then back at him. "I'd say the worst is over," she replied. "Tell Elizabeth I said thanks, okay? And that...she's in good hands." She took one step out, then turned back, "By the way, the_ Tamerlane_? _Amazing_ work—major props." And with a mutual smile, she disappeared down the hall.

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><p><strong>AA/N:** As one of my awesome reviewers pointed out, I really shouldn't use these footnotes to explain my character's actions too much- it distracts from the piece. But, I am curious about something, so I'm going to put it out there in case someone knows the answer: is Neal's fear/dislike of hospitals actually taken from a reference in the show, or is it just inferred for FanFic purposes (which is completely valid in creative licensing)? Just wondering...


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N**: So I feel like there may have been an unnecessary buildup to this chapter- I hope it doesn't disappoint!

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><p>Peter didn't want to worry El, so when she awoke the next morning (and he'd finally managed to get a few hours of sleep in himself), he told her that Neal was awake and okay.<p>

Then he'd insisted on getting her some breakfast and himself some coffee while a nurse helped her go through her morning routine.

And after that he'd taken a few minutes to talk to Diana before returning to his wife and letting her know that Brooke had sneaked out of the hospital sometime last night.

He had just segued into cheerily updating her about the fact that he'd spoken to the doctor, and they'd be home in time to catch the game tonight, when he felt El squeeze his hand.

"You can't avoid him forever, Peter," the brunette told him, smiling knowingly. "You two are going to have to talk about it eventually."

Peter sighed, glancing at the love of his life. "I don't know what to say to him," he replied honestly. _Neal, I'm eternally grateful that you came through—like you _always_ do—and saved my wife, all the while putting yourself at risk to help stop a psychotic criminal, but I still should be sending you to prison for life for helping hide a priceless treasure stolen from a sunken Nazi U-boat?_ "I don't even know where to start."

"Hon, just be honest," she encouraged him. "He's probably just as lost as you are, and he should know what's going on, with the case _and_ with you." The FBI agent smiled, leaning down to kiss her. "Hmm. Go," she ordered.

Peter made his way down the hall. It was practically empty compared to the day before—the only agents left besides himself were Rice's people left to sit on Keller, and he was in his secluded little room, tucked far away where nobody in this wing had to think about him.

He paused when he reached Neal's room. The agent couldn't help but smile as he lingered just outside the door, listening to the con and Sara's lighthearted conversation, the flirtatious behavior between them easily resurfacing as the insurance investigator regaled the other with her story of an ill-fated experience with a particularly stubborn horse as a girl that landed her in the hospital. He watched the closeness between the two of them as she sat across from him on his bed, the con's form gently upright and twisted to allow her more space.

It was Neal's more vigorous laugh that allowed him to catch sight of the man by the door. "Peter," he said happily, though the agent didn't miss the slight anxiousness in his greeting.

Sara's eyes flitted between the two men, and she shifted to place her feet on the ground. "I'm going to get some coffee," she told Neal resting her hand on his in assurance. "Maybe call Mozzie with an update—let him know it's safe to visit."

Neal grinned and held onto her a moment longer. "Thanks," he told her.

The two men listened as the heels clacked out of the room and disappeared down the hall.

"It's nice that Sara stuck around," Peter noted.

"Yeah, well; she was worried about Elizabeth," Neal replied casually, causing Peter to consider the con man.

"You don't think it has anything to do with you?"

"No—I mean, I know she was concerned," Neal answered, shrugging with his good shoulder and shifting his gaze anywhere but on the man in front of him. "But, when everything's back to normal…she had a reason for leaving."

"The treasure?" Peter hadn't realized how long his subconscious had been teasing that one out, but reflecting on the last twenty-four hours and Neal's surprised expression as he turned to him, everything easily fell into place. "She figured it out before all of this, didn't she_?" And she walked away before he could leave, either for prison or a tropical island_.

"She may have had an idea that there was something I wasn't being completely honest with her about," Neal admitted vaguely.

"There seems to be a lot of that going around," the agent replied.

Both men were silent. Peter hadn't meant to jump in so suddenly: the opening had just been there, and he'd spoken before he thought about it. And Neal—Neal just looked guilty.

"So, what now?" he finally asked , and Peter felt like this scene should be set in his living room, the older man standing as his teenage son-like partner sat on the couch, staring at the floor and waiting to be sentenced.

"What do you think Neal?" Wow, they were really going this route, weren't they? He took in the con man's figure, wondering how often this had happened in his no-doubt mischievous youth.

The con man nodded, as if Peter's words were the final nail in the coffin. "The Degas will be authenticated," he replied. "From there it's an easy jump to me and Moz—even if the treasure's never recovered, it's easily theft and forgery; and back to a lifetime of metal bars and bad coffee." He tried to shrug casually, smiling up at the agent. "At least I had a good run—I mean, I did okay, right?"

Peter still didn't say anything, watching as Neal's blue eyes wavered while he waited for the other to say something. "I don't know, Peter. Maybe we could try that Prison Pen Pals thing after all?" he joked, chuckling. "Or you could just come by to talk…you know, if you wanted."

Neal's smile faltered a little in the silence that remained. "Come on Peter, I know, okay? I know that I lied—that even though I really didn't steal it, I ruined everything by not walking away from the treasure; and that things just got worse and worse the more I tried to have both lives. I know that I'm the reason that all of this has happened, but you've got to believe I would _never_ have done it if I'd known—never purposely put you and Elizabeth in danger…Peter, come on. I'm _sorry_, just…say _something_."

Peter still didn't know what to say, but Neal looked like he was going to leap out of bed and shake the man, so he moved forward, sitting next to him and placing his hand on the con's good shoulder.

"You're not going to prison," he finally admitted. _Might as well start with the easy stuff_. He almost laughed at Neal's shocked expression. "The crates in the U-haul, along with their contents, have all been declared forgeries."

"Well, yeah," Neal replied. "Moz was busy making replicas of the crates as soon as he heard about Elizabeth; then he just filled them with some of my pieces and that big crate with some gems he put together with that oven from the Burma case—that's why it took him so long to respond."

"He just filled it up with anything you had lying around?" Peter asked, distracted slightly by the contents he hadn't seen.

Neal shrugged. "He took some of the nicer pieces; believable in case someone did look. But Keller's never been into art except for the value. We figured he'd go straight for the gems. And he always lacked real expertise in authenticating pieces—he'd never be able to do it on short notice under pressure. He wouldn't have looked to appraise any of it until he was safely wherever he was going."

Peter nodded, conceding to the new information. Neal, on the other hand, shifted back to his puzzled expression.

"So nothing in the truck was stolen," Peter continued to explain. "And the forgeries were all reported as an official part of the sting. So there was nothing illegal to charge you with."

"But the Degas—" Neal pushed hesitantly, looking half-afraid to bring it up.

"_All_ of the forgeries were reported as part of the sting," Peter repeated emphatically. "Including a forged Degas that was confiscated two days ago and checked out of the evidence locker in order to engage in a meet with Keller earlier yesterday." Peter still couldn't believe he'd tampered with evidence on his consultant's behalf. He had gone to the evidence locker as soon as the first meeting was established and signed out the forgery, wondering if Neal could use it to buy some time; only to later find the painting already in Keller's possession when they arrested him. He'd safely tucked the authentic piece into the forgery's place, rationalizing that he'd find a way to bring someone in to authenticate it, return it to the rightful owners, when the statute of limitations was up.

Neal really was a bad influence.

"So…everything's okay," Neal said slowly, half-way between a question and a statement.

Peter still said nothing, only sighing in a mixture of frustration and residual disappointment. "Well, no Neal, not really," he finally responded.

Neal finally met Peter's gaze with a smooth smile, "Come on Peter: we got Keller, Elizabeth's back; we're in the clear." Yet Peter noted the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. He found himself wondering if the man was really trying to convince the agent or actually trying to convince himself. He'd never really thought to consider it before.

"Legally, yeah," he allowed. "But what about us Neal? I trusted you, and you still tried to play both sides until someone forced your hand. I don't want you to sit there, thinking that everything's okay just because El's alive and you're not going to prison. The consequences for all of this Neal—it could've gone so wrong. We could have _lost_ El; we could have lost _you_—"

"Peter, I know—"

The agent stared him down. "Do you, Neal? Really? Because there's a part of me that's afraid that you just don't get it—that you never will until you actually crash headfirst into rock bottom and lose everything."

The other man hesitated a moment, before murmuring something under his breath.

"What?"

Blue eyes met his, painful realization on them. "I _did_ lose everything Peter—I felt completely alone yesterday, the minute you told me Elizabeth had been taken. I've lost people before, Peter, been responsible for what happened to them—" the agent knew his thoughts lingered on Kate "—but the last twenty-four hours…I almost welcomed the idea of prison as an alternative to having to sit in the office, at home, feeling like a traitor to everyone that looked at me."

He took a deep breath, and the two men were quiet, facing forward and watching their feet.

"So where do you think we go from here?" Neal finally asked.

Peter sighed again. "I honestly don't know," he replied. "I hadn't gotten this far yet." He took a breath. "Things will probably go back to square one for awhile—constant monitoring, a lot of doubt..." he held up Neal's tracking anklet, and watched his CI nod without argument out of respect for and understanding of the seriousness of the conversation. "There are a lot of hurt feelings running around on this one, not just mine. This isn't the kind of thing that's going to go back to normal overnight Neal."

The con nodded. "But it might, eventually," he looked up to his friend, blue eyes hopeful. "Go back to normal?"

Peter found himself placing his hand on Neal's shoulder again. "We're still a team, Neal. We're still your friends. Things may get back to where they should be if you can manage to stay out of trouble; remember which team you chose." Peter realized that was probably the best part of the whole conversation; taking that moment to establish between the two of them that Neal had chosen a side, even before Keller—that he'd chosen his team, and his life here, over the ultimate score that had fallen into his lap.

Neal smiled slightly as he nodded in assent, and Peter saw that his partner's thoughts echoed his own. There was still a lot to overcome, obviously, and nothing could go back to exactly how it was. Neither man was sure how Neal and El would change or adjust around the other; or whether the con and Sara's relationship would rekindle or convert into something more platonic; how the team would reincorporate their consultant into their family. There was a lot of unknowns in the long term.

But for now, the two men sat comfortably together on an uncomfortable hospital bed, knowing that despite everything, they were still partners, friends, and had each others' backs and best interests at heart.

_Fade Out to Credits_.

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><p><strong>AA/N:** I chose to end with some resolution, but overall I left it the way I figured an episode would- with a conclusion for the short run, but an overall unknown in the long term. I hope you guys liked it, and would love to hear feedback :)


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